


Reversal

by ReganX



Category: The Tudors
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-29
Updated: 2012-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-31 22:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 51,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReganX/pseuds/ReganX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if you were offered the chance to take back the greatest mistake of your life, but only if you would pay the highest price?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Uncertainty

It was more than seven months after Anne's execution that he began to contemplate the possibility that she might have been innocent, a thought he had guarded against until then.

Seeing Elizabeth started it.

After he was told about Anne, he wanted nothing to do with anything or anybody connected with her, including the daughter who came in place of the son Anne promised him.

It was easy to believe that she was not his child at all, that she was Henry Norris' brat and that, far from being a curse, her female sex was actually a blessing from God who, in His wisdom and in His mercy and compassion towards Henry, would not give Anne and Norris a son that he would be fooled into believing was his son, would not allow him to be tricked into proclaiming the boy his heir, Prince of Wales and future King of England, and into staying married to the boy's mother, even after he realized that Anne had seduced him into marrying her through witchcraft and after he met Jane, who loved him truly, because he would not be able to do anything that would call the boy's legitimacy into question and rob himself of the male heir he had longed for for so long.

A prince would have tied him to Anne forever, and ensured that she would enjoy her title as Queen for as long as he lived, and that of Queen Dowager when he was dead, perhaps even wielding the power of Regent, backed by her father as Lord Protector if he did not live to see the boy come of age, as he could not exclude his son's kin from power, no matter how he felt about them, not even if he feared for the safety of his eldest daughter once Anne and her father ruled England, as they might believe that they should execute Mary to protect the boy's throne. Now that he had his Jane, he couldn't help but feel relieved that Anne was never allowed to bear a boy whose birth would have forced him to forget any ideas about making Jane his wife.

He was sure that she would never agree to be his mistress, however much she might love him, and he could not have insulted her by pressing her to give herself to him without the marriage that he would never be able to offer her while Anne lived, if she had given him a son.

Nobody could have expected him to give up his happiness with Jane for the sake of a _daughter_ , and Henry had not contemplated shrinking from the idea of annulling his marriage for Elizabeth's sake, any more than he was prepared to turn a deaf ear to the allegations against Anne rather than allow Elizabeth's mother to be executed. A daughter's happiness could be set aside.

It was so easy to refuse to see Elizabeth, or to accept the responsibility of providing for a child who might not be his... and then he saw her again.

If Mary and Jane had told him what they were planning, hinting at the identity of the surprise guest they intended to present to him at Christmastide, he would have forbidden them to bring Elizabeth to court, reminding them that she was the bastard child of a whore and a traitor and that he did not wish for her to set foot in his court or to hear her spoken of in his presence. Anne was gone and he wanted to forget about everything connected with that whore, including her child.

Perhaps they had known that.

Perhaps this was why they did not ask him before they sent word to Lady Bryan, instructing her to bring Elizabeth to court for Christmas and even arranging for a seamstress to make a court gown for her, a miniature of the one Mary wore, knowing that, since Anne was executed, he had not been willing to pay for new clothes for the daughter she left behind and that it was certain that Elizabeth would have outgrown the finery Anne lavished on her while she lived and that she would have nothing suitable to wear for such an important audience with her royal father. They said nothing to him, trusting that once he saw Elizabeth, face to face, he would not be able to harden his heart against her, or to command that she should be removed from his sight.

They were right.

How could he have failed to be touched by the sight of his young daughter walking towards him, through a sea of courtiers whose shock at her presence among them was plain, and who must all have been wondering what kind of reception Anne Boleyn's child could expect from the father her mother had so grievously wronged and whose disgrace tainted her daughter, staring curiously at the child as she made her way towards the dais, her back straight and her small face solemn?

He could imagine the thoughts that must have been running through the heads of his courtiers as the child approached the dais, could imagine that some were expecting – perhaps even hoping, if they were among those who clung to the belief that Mary was legitimate and who feared that, if little Elizabeth was welcomed back into favour, Mary's chance of restoration to the succession would suffer further damage – that he would refuse to acknowledge the child and insist that she should be removed from his presence, but Elizabeth was fearless.

Just three years old, returning to court for the first time since her mother's disgrace and execution in May, to be presented to the father she had not seen in months, and uncertain of the kind of reception she could expect from him, unable to know if he would even be willing to recognize her as his child or if he would deny her to her face and insist that she was the bastard of one of Anne's paramours, as he had believed her to be, when he was told of Anne's crimes. He was sure that Mary and Jane had bolstered her confidence with assurances that her father loved her but the child must still have been uncertain, yet Elizabeth approached him bravely, without hesitating, showing a degree of courage one would expect from a seasoned warrior rather than from a small girl, and when she addressed him, in her pretty French, her voice was clear and confident.

The last time Elizabeth had come to court, she was honoured by all as the Princess of England, the heir to the throne until such a time as her mother gave her a baby brother, and the courtiers had revered her as such, bowing and curtseying at her approach, knowing that their King expected this of them and that he would be mightily displeased if they denied his daughter any of the honours he demanded on her behalf, but if Elizabeth was unhappy to see that nobody bent their knee to her when she entered the Great Hall, unwilling to accord her such a degree of respect until they knew where she stood in her father's favour, she gave no sign of it, holding her head as high as an Empress, let alone a Princess, and approaching her father with a grace that belied her years.

If she felt any fear or apprehension, she showed no sign of it.

Her smile when he motioned for her to approach, however, let him know that she loved him and that she was delighted that her exile from his sight was at an end.

She had the most beautiful smile he had ever seen... with one exception, an exception that he did not care to think of, one that still had the power to cause him pain when he thought of it.

He had seen, almost from the moment of Elizabeth's birth, that she was very like her mother, save that her hair was fair while Anne's was dark but when Elizabeth was presented to him at Christmas, he could see some of his traits in her small face, and her hair had deepened to the same shade of red-gold as Henry's mother's hair. Her likeness to her mother was still apparent, he could not deny it if he wanted to, though he hated to see any reminder of that whore, especially in their child's face, but it was clear that she was a Tudor instead of a Boleyn.

When he saw Elizabeth again, the doubts he had about her paternity melted away and he was pleased to welcome her back into his life as his daughter, lifting her onto his lap and kissing her, holding her close to him and marvelling at how much heavier she was than the toddler he had last lifted in his arms. She was a little girl now instead of a toddler, a wonderful, clever little girl and he could feel confident that Norris could never have sired such a perfect child as his Elizabeth, even if Anne had bedded him in the hope that he would be able to get a boy on her.

Elizabeth had her mother's beauty and charm, inheriting the best of Anne, everything that he had once loved in her, but her bravery and her precocity came from him, he was sure of it. She was his daughter, something that nobody who saw her could deny, himself included, and he was glad that Mary and Jane had brought her back into his life, where she belonged.

He would not have wanted to be deprived of her presence a moment longer.

_"Je suis en famille!"_

The courtiers had applauded when he spoke those words, pleased to see their King happy, and to see that Queen Jane had brought both of her stepdaughters back into their father's good graces, and into the bosom of the royal family – not as princesses, it was true, as both girls were illegitimate and unfit to bear that title, no matter how much Henry loved them and no matter how much he would have liked to allow them that honour, if it was possible for him to grant it to them, but as girls to be honoured by all as the King's daughters, and accorded the respect that was due to those with royal blood flowing in their veins, to the daughters of so mighty a prince as himself – but Henry was certain that nobody present was as happy at that moment as he was.

He had his family back together, against the odds, his two daughters back in his life but with their mothers dead and unable to cause trouble for him – Katherine unable to fill Mary's with lies about being legitimate, the rightful heiress to the throne and the daughter of the true Queen of England, making their poor daughter feel guilty because she had realized the truth instead of spending the rest of her life clinging to the lies her beloved mother had told, and Anne unable to corrupt Elizabeth's childish innocence with her wickedness – and he had his sweet Jane by his side.

He was happy then, and was sure that he would have been happy forever if he had not begun to doubt a truth he had held to for over seven months, since he was told of Anne's crimes.

After Elizabeth's visit, when the child had returned to Hatfield with Lady Bryan, after receiving an affectionate farewell from her father, stepmother and half-sister, he began to suffer from sleepless nights from time to time, spending long nights tossing and turning in his bed with sleep eluding him, even when he brewed possets for himself, unable to shake off the nagging doubts about Anne's guilt. He had been so sure that Elizabeth was no child of his, so sure that she was Norris' child and that Anne had duped him into believing that Elizabeth was his but now that he knew that she was his daughter and, no matter how hard he tried to shut out such thoughts, he couldn't keep himself from wondering if his belief in Anne's guilt was also mistaken.

If he was wrong to harbour doubts about Elizabeth's paternity, he couldn't dismiss the possibility that he might have been wrong about Anne's guilt too.

At first, he was sure that it was just his mind playing tricks on him, and he almost managed to convince himself that his doubts stemmed from his love for Elizabeth, and a natural desire to believe that she was not tainted by her mother's blood, that she was not the daughter of a whore and a traitor, a woman who had callously manipulated his feelings for her so that she could force him to make her his Queen and injure good people for the sake of her ambition, but his doubts persisted and they led him to Richard Rich, of whom he demanded to be shown the evidence collected against Anne, every testimony that had been used to send her to the scaffold.

Even then he knew, deep down, that he could not ask Cromwell, knew that if he raised the issue with his Lord Chancellor, some of the evidence would conveniently disappear before he had a chance to examine it for himself, perhaps replaced by forgeries that would support his account.

Rich, however, had not dared to withhold anything, and the evidence was illuminating.

Just not in the way that Henry had hoped.

There were over twenty separate counts of adultery, with various partners, listed against Anne.

How could _all_ of them be so easy to discount?

Even if Anne was a witch, she would not be able to be in two places at once, so how could she have bedded Norris in the October of the year before their deaths, at a time when she was with him at Whitehall Palace and Norris was halfway across the country, overseeing his estates? If he hunted through his papers, he would probably be able to find Norris' petition to absent himself from his duties at court to manage his own estates, a petition he readily granted, believing that it was natural for Norris to want to get his estates in order before proposing marriage to Madge.

How could she have shared a bed with George when her brother was in Paris, negotiating with the King of France in the hope that Francis could be persuaded to formally acknowledge Anne as Queen and accept their child as a bride for his son, the Duke of Angouleme, so that they could show the Emperor that, if he denied Anne's place as Queen, England would befriend France?

How could she have shared Smeaton's bed on the same night when he himself shared her bed, conceiving the child she miscarried after she saw him sitting with Jane?

How could she have taken a lover – any lover – in the weeks immediately following Elizabeth's birth, when she was still confined to her apartment, constantly surrounded by her ladies?

His heart sank as he remembered each date, remembering why the circumstances of each one made it impossible for Anne to have betrayed him.

There was no doubt in his mind that Anne would have been able to dispute these accusations as easily as he was able to find fault in them, answering each charge with cool logic and explaining why it was simply impossible for her to have bedded the men in question on the days and in the places where she was alleged to have taken them as her lovers, but it would have done her no good, no matter how persuasive and reasonable her arguments were, no matter how effectively she managed to show the utter ridiculousness of the charges laid against her.

Nobody would have listened to her protestations of innocence, no matter how truthful they were, no matter how absurd the charges laid against her were. Even if some of the lords who acted as her judges at her trial were convinced by her words, even if they balked at sending a woman they believed to be innocent to the scaffold, they would not dare to declare in favour of Anne, not when they believed that it was the wish of their sovereign that his wife should be condemned, and that he would be angry if he was told that she was guiltless and would have to remain his wife.

It was an open secret at court, and probably throughout the country, that his marriage to Anne was no longer the happy, loving union it once was, just as it was well known that his eye had fallen on Jane, that she was too virtuous to ever become any man's mistress, particularly a married man and that, as he would never insult such a dear, sweet and pure lady by pressing her to abandon her principles and share his bed when he was married to Anne, it was his earnest wish to be free of Anne so that he could make Jane, his sweetheart, his Guinevere, his wife.

No man would have dared to snatch this chance at freedom and of the marriage he wanted away from him, not if he valued his position and even his life. Had he commanded Anne's father to sit in judgement on his son and daughter, even Thomas Boleyn would not have dared to do anything except condemn his children for their alleged treason, so how could any other lord in England, many of whom had no good opinion of Anne, with some of them still feeling resentment towards her because she had replaced Katherine as Queen, be expected to do otherwise?

He had known that when he first gave the order that Anne should be tried for her alleged crimes. He had known that there could be no fair trial for her but, at the time, he did not care.

At the time, all he could think of was that when Anne was executed for her crimes, burned or beheaded at his pleasure, he would be able to marry Jane the next day if he wished.

Her death was something to be eagerly anticipated, not dreaded or regretted.

Even the testimony of Brereton, the man who had confessed to adultery with Anne, admitting his crimes freely, without even being threatened with torture in order to loosen his tongue, did not bring him the reassurance he sought. He had not wanted to read Brereton's confession when he first made it to Cromwell, feeling revolted by the mere thought of reading the bragging confession of another man who had lain with his wife. He did not want to know the details of the fornication between Brereton and Anne but now he wished that he could have read it sooner, not because it would have reassured him of Anne's guilt but because he would have known better than to accept the charges against her at face value without investigating the matter further.

He would have ensured that he made it abundantly clear to Cromwell that, if Anne was innocent, the last thing he wanted was for her to be condemned unjustly. Better that he should take the time to have the validity of their marriage investigated, and some suitable grounds found for its dissolution, than that he should risk having innocent blood on his hands. Anne's innocent blood.

This confession was nothing more than the ramblings of a madman.

It was not evidence, it was scurrilous slander, born of insanity and not to be credited.

A sixth finger on the side of her right hand... a body covered with moles, teats for the Devil to suckle at... Anne had no such marks on her body, as he had good cause to know.

How could Brereton believe that he would have loved Anne for so many years, seen her naked and shared her bed without ever noticing that she possessed those deformities, which would mark her as a witch? Had he seen such a mark on Anne, he would have abandoned the idea of making her his Queen as soon as he saw them, knowing that if God had marked her in such a way, it could only be proof that He did not intend for Anne to be Queen of England, and he would have known well that he could not allow a woman with such deformities become the mother of his son.

England needed a Prince of Wales, but not one who would be marred by the Devil from his birth.

The man was mad, there was no other explanation for his ridiculous assertions.

When Brereton was first arrested, when he was conducted to the Tower and told that he was accused of having been the Queen's lover, and of conspiring with her to place a bastard born of their treasonous union on the throne, his mind must have broken. The Tower was a fearsome place, and the prospect of being charged with treason and executed for it more fearsome still. A strong man might be able to hold to what he knew to be true, even if he was threatened with torture or death if he did not obey those who held him prisoner, but a weak man would break under such strain, too frightened by the prospect of death to be able to think clearly.

Brereton's sanity must have slipped away from him, leading him to confess to crimes he had not committed in the hope that his life would be spared if he told his captors what they wanted to hear from him and, in time, when he was locked in a chilly, damp cell and knew that the hour of his death was rapidly approaching, he must have come to believe that the lies he told in his confession were the truth, that he really had committed treason with Anne and that she was the witch of his dark, twisted fantasies, a monster who had lured him into betraying his King. It would have been the only way he could reconcile himself with the acts of disloyalty that he believed himself to have committed. In order to cope, he had to make Anne his scapegoat.

The wretched man must have gone to the scaffold believing himself a traitor. He would have gone to the scaffold believing that Anne was guilty, and that he did the right thing by confessing to their crimes together and clearing his conscience, even if it meant that they would both die for it. Brereton would have believed that, when Anne followed him to the scaffold, it would be to face a punishment that she richly deserved for her betrayal of the King to whom she owed so much, little realizing that, in his madness, he had helped to bring about the death of an innocent woman.

Henry wished that he could believe that but he couldn't, not any more... and if he couldn't believe that Anne was guilty, he couldn't believe that her execution was a just one.

Had he committed murder in order to clear his and Jane's path to the marriage bed?

The thought was one that filled him with dread.

* * *

Jane was no coquette, not like Anne, and she was not a woman who would dissemble when plain speaking would serve her better, preferring to speak of things openly rather than nursing secrets and sharing them only when it suited her to, but when he sat down to breakfast with her that morning, he could sense from her demeanor that she had a secret that she was keeping from him, and knew from the sparkle in her eyes that it was a happy one, perhaps even the thing that he had hoped and prayed to hear her tell him, from the moment when they were first married.

If he was honest with himself, he had to admit that he was disappointed that it had taken her so long. They had been married almost nine months now, and on their wedding day, when Jane thanked him for his gift of a beautiful necklace and he confided in her that he hoped that he would soon be able to thank her for the gift she would give him, he had expected that, by now, Jane would have begun her lying-in, awaiting the birth of the Prince that all of England longed for, but that didn't matter now, not when he could hope that she was now ready to tell him the good news, news that he knew would be worth the wait, however long it was.

When she saw what she had chosen to have for breakfast, he was sure of it.

As if to confirm his suspicions, she gave him a small smile as she speared a slice of quail's egg with her fork and brought it to her lips, chewing it slowly.

"I see you're eating quails' eggs again, sweetheart." He remarked as casually as he could, his calm tone belying the excitement he felt welling within him in happy anticipation of the news he was certain that she was about to give him. He managed to remain seated, despite his desire to run to her, take her in his arms and dance her around the room, rejoicing in this blessing. He could not lose control in front of servants... especially if there was the slightest chance that he was mistaken about Jane's news. "Did you not have those yesterday?" He prompted her.

When Anne was carrying Elizabeth, she longed for apples during those first months, and even though apples were scarce in the early spring, he had gone to great lengths to obtain them for her, and anything else she fancied, determined that the mother of his unborn son would not be deprived, even for a moment, of any of the foods that he needed to thrive and grow strong. With her next two pregnancies, she could not bear the sight or smell of apples, or of any of the foods she had craved with Elizabeth, something he had taken as a hopeful sign rather than something to be concerned about, a sign that her stomach rebelled at the prospect of the foods she needed to grow a girl because, this time, she was carrying a boy instead.

For a fleeting instant, he wondered whether the apples were the food that had given Elizabeth the strength to grow strong in the womb and to thrive after her birth, strength that her baby brothers had not shared, and he wondered if he should have obliged Anne to eat at least a couple of them a day when she was carrying them, whether she liked it or not, so that their sons would share their sister's strength, but he forced the thought from his mind.

Anne was dead now, and would never give him a son. Nothing he could do would change that.

Jane was alive, Jane was his wife and it was on Jane that he needed to focus now.

Jane was smiling at him as she answered his question, as aware as he was of the question he was truly asking her. She knew as well as he did how vital a question this was for them, and for all of England, and he could see from the expression on her face that she was happy to be able to give the right answer. "Yes, Your Majesty." She said. "I seem to have developed a fondness for them."

"A special fondness?" Henry pressed, trying to suppress his eagerness.

"Well, indeed." Jane replied, her smile growing broader. "For some reason, I desire quail's eggs above everything else." Despite her innocent tone, it was plain that she understood exactly why she craved quail's eggs, and equally plain that she was just as happy about it as he was.

He managed to keep calm long enough to order the gentleman servers and Jane's ladies-in-waiting to leave the room, to allow them some privacy for this wonderful moment, and he waited until they all obediently departed before he addressed his wife. "I think you're with child."

Jane nodded slightly. "I am." She confirmed happily.

He balled his napkin in his hand and tossed in on the table in front of him, rising from his chair and moving to kneel next to Jane, taking her in his arms, but his happiness did not long outlast the meeting. While he was with Jane, it was easy for him to forget that Anne ever existed, and he certainly was not about to dwell on the subject of her execution when he and Jane were together, making plans for the nursery that would house their child, a nursery fit for the Prince of Wales, and choosing his name and his godparents – he happily agreed with Jane that the Lady Mary should be the one honoured with the role as godmother to the Prince, as a reward for her submission and subsequent loyalty – but once they parted, his doubts haunted him once more.

The child in Jane's womb, the son he had longed for for so long, since the day when he first succeeded his father as King of England and knew that it was his duty to secure the succession by siring at least one male heir, and preferably more, as the lives of children were so fragile, was a child whose existence was made possible by the murder of an innocent, his half-sister's mother.

Henry was afraid to think of what that would mean for him.

Jane was a good, kind woman but so was Katherine. Katherine's goodness, as well as her devotion to God and the fervency with which she said her prayers had not kept their sons safe, when God decreed that they should die so that their parents would understand that their union was incestuous in His eyes, a sinful union that would never be blessed with male issue, no matter how hard or how often they prayed and no matter how many good works they did to win His blessings. Jane's goodness, her loyalty and love for him, her genuine affection for Mary and even the kindness she had shown to little Elizabeth when the child returned to court, would not be enough to protect their son if God believed that he should die in payment for Anne's murder.

How long would it be before the midwives had to be called to tend to Jane when their son began to slip out of her womb, far too soon for him to have any hope of surviving? How long would it be before he entered a darkened bedchamber, his nostrils assaulted by the combined smell of blood and the strong soap and vinegar that would be used to cleanse the room from top to bottom? How long would it be before he would have to comfort Jane for their shared loss, unable to find words of reassurance or to tell her of the true reason why their boy was taken from them?

Would Jane herself survive, or would she die too, her life taken in payment for Anne's?

"I didn't know!" He pleaded with the crucifix in his bedchamber, where he was to sleep alone until Jane was safely delivered of their child... if she was allowed to carry him to term... for fear that their son would suffer if he lay with her now. More had given him the crucifix, four Christmases ago, on his first Christmas with Anne by his side and Katherine banished from his court, a merry Christmas he had believed would be the first of many joyful occasions with Anne, little thinking that, within three and a half years, her headless corpse would lie in the precincts of the Tower, her memory defamed and the only child she gave him rendered illegitimate. He wished that he could talk to More now. The other man would know what he should do. More would understand why Anne had been executed, and would know that Henry would never have intentionally sent her to the scaffold when she was innocent of any crime. "I thought that she was guilty!"

He could have sworn that he heard soft, mocking laughter. Was it Anne's laughter?

"They told me that you were guilty!" He was shouting the words, half-hoping that Anne could hear him and half-hoping that, wherever she was now, she was not in a position where she could see what had happened in England since her death. While it had been easy for him to turn his back on little Elizabeth after Anne's death, easy to reject the child as Henry Norris' bastard daughter and to refuse to have anything to do with her, he didn't want Anne to know how long he had refused to see Elizabeth, refused to write to Lady Bryan to find out how the child was faring or to send the governess money to provide for her, or to know that he had not invited their daughter back to his court of her own free will, and that, but for Mary and Jane, the child might still be in exile.

As angry as Anne would be over the wrongs he committed against her, her anger over the wrongs he committed against Elizabeth would be multiplied at least tenfold.

"I believed that you betrayed me! I believed that Elizabeth was another man's child! You know that I couldn't allow her to stay a princess after that." He argued vehemently, only partly aware of the absurdity and futility of arguing with a dead woman, and feeling that he had to defend himself against the accusations that he could imagine Anne speaking, if she was here and able to give them voice, the accusations that he felt certain that he would make, in her position. "If she wasn't mine, I couldn't risk letting her be my heir, and I couldn't let you live if you betrayed me!"

If he and Jane had not been blessed with a son, his previous doubts about Elizabeth's paternity would have haunted him. How could he contemplate taking any chances with the dynasty his father had charged him with preserving by letting another man's child wear the crown?

In the same way, he could not have allowed Anne to live if he knew that she had made a cuckold of him, even if he was not so angry with her as to be unable to contemplate the idea of showing her mercy. Even if he annulled their marriage, even if he locked her away in the most remote convent in England – and he would be happy to leave it open instead of ordering its dissolution, if the nuns there had had the power to keep Anne away from him – he would not put it past Anne to claim to be Queen from her place of exile or even from behind convent walls. Most people would pay no attention to her claims, he knew that, but even if just one man in a hundred believed her to be Queen, it would be one man too many for his liking, one man more than he could tolerate.

When Jane bore his son, no man in England must dispute the boy's legitimacy.

There was no answer to his words but, instead of being a relief, it made him feel even angrier.

"Say something, God damn you!" He demanded furiously, able to picture Anne's mocking gaze, all too easily, and to imagine her looking down on him, taking a malicious pleasure in the guilt he was feeling and in the knowledge that, thanks to her, he could enjoy neither happiness nor peace, not even today, just hours after Jane told him her wonderful news. He was sure that, if she knew of Jane's condition, she would be furious to think that another woman would succeed where she had failed, and would never want him to have a son with Jane. "Talk to me!"

Was he going mad, berating a dead woman and expecting her to answer him?

Was he to be doomed to spend the rest of his life startled by shadows, imagining Anne's laughter and her voice, convinced that she was still there, haunting him? How could he bear that?

"What do you want from me?" He demanded of her. "What will it take for you to leave, and never come back? You know that I believed that you were guilty when I signed the death warrant, I wouldn't have signed it if I knew you were innocent, not even for her." Some instinct told him that it would be better if he did not mention Jane by name, for fear that he would either enrage Anne further or prompt her to turn her attentions and her malice on Jane, punishing her for being the reason why he had wanted his freedom so badly that he did not want to contemplate the possibility that she might have been innocent. He felt an icy wind blow through his bedchamber and he shivered, terrified to think that Anne was in the room with him, and that she might do more than make him feel cold. Who knew what powers the dead possessed, especially when they believed themselves to have been wronged, and who knew what vengeance Anne might decide to exact. "Be reasonable, Anne, it's not as though I can change what happened!"

_"And if you could?"_

The voice was not Anne's voice.

It was deeper, a man's voice, though he did not think that it was the voice of George Boleyn or of any of the men who died with Anne, and the tone was challenging.

"Who are you?" He demanded, but the voice did not answer straightaway.

 _"What if you could go back? What if you could undo it all, and keep her from dying, keep yourself from allowing her to stand trial?"_ The voice enquired. _"Would you do it?"_

He couldn't think what to say in response to this extraordinary offer. This could not be real. He was dreaming, or mad. No man could undo what had already happened, even if he came to regret his past actions, even if he wanted to change them... and Henry wasn't entirely sure that he _did_ want to take back what happened with Anne. Guilty or innocent, her death had set him free and, as a free man, he had married Jane, whom he was sure was the perfect wife for him, reconciled with his eldest daughter and now he even had hope of a son with Jane.

How could he give that up?

Instead of answering the question, he kept his voice steady as he commanded the speaker. "Show yourself." He ordered, though he kept his voice low, half-afraid that the grooms who were standing outside his door would hear him and come in to see him speaking to thin air and that they would believe that their King was a madman. "I want to know who you are."

At first, he thought that it was a trick of the light, that he was imagining a figure when there was only a shadow but as he stared, the figure took shape, a tall muscular man – no gentleman of the court, if the clothes were anything to judge by – with his face shrouded by a brown mask. In his hand, he carried a beautifully wrought silver sword, its long blade gleaming in the moonlight.

He did not need to announce his identity.

"You're the one." Henry managed to say, though his mouth was as dry as if he had spent a month in the desert, without a drop of water, and his tongue felt huge and swollen. "You killed her."

The voice of the Executioner of Calais was harsh and unforgiving. "So did you."


	2. Truth

Anne was the one who had wanted a French swordsman to preside over her execution.

For the men who were accused with her, and who preceded her to the scaffold, the services of one of the English executioners, together with the customary axe, would have to suffice – and they could consider themselves fortunate that they were to be spared the worse penalty of hanging, drawing and quartering, which would have been their fate if he had not commuted their sentences, an act of kindness that they certainly did not deserve, after the way they had betrayed his trust – but Anne, having heard stories of how executions could be botched if the axeman's aim was faulty, was terrified of the pain she might endure and had written to him, pleading with him that, if it was his pleasure that she should die, he could send for the Executioner of Calais, who would be able to behead her in one swift and painless stroke, and he had agreed to her request, though not so much for the sake of sparing Anne pain as to ensure that there would be no botched execution that might anger the crowds and lead them to accuse him of having Anne butchered.

Though he would never understand why, when the people of England had steadfastly refused to accept that Anne was their Queen and when many of them had heaped insults on Anne as a concubine, despising her as the perceived cause of his decision to annul his marriage to Katherine, whom they loved, they should suddenly side with her when it emerged that their allegations about her being a whore had had a great deal of truth in them, instead of gloating over her downfall and delighting in the fact that they were proven right about her, they had felt sympathy towards her instead, with many refusing to believe the charges laid against and insisting that the trial was nothing more than a pretext for getting rid of her so that Jane might take her place as Queen.

Instead of rejoicing to see Anne meet her just desserts, as he had confidently expected would be the case, instead of feeling vindicated to know that all they had said about Anne's unworthiness to be his wife and Queen had been proven true and taking satisfaction in the fact that they were right all along, instead of celebrating the fact that they would soon have a Queen they could willingly accept, their anger and indignation was directed at him instead, and even against Jane, despite the precautions he had taken in sending Jane away from court before Anne was arrested.

He had sent her away to protect her reputation and so that he would not be accused of allowing an unjust trial and execution in order to free himself from a wife he no longer wished to be tied to, now that another lady held his heart in her hands and it was his earnest desire to marry her but, for all the good it did either of them, he might as well have kept Jane at court and enjoyed her company for those weeks instead of depriving himself of her sweet, gentle presence.

Anne asked him to send for the Executioner of Calais before her trial had even commenced.

She knew then, as he did now, that she had never had any hope of being freed, even if she was innocent. Her fate was decided as soon as she was arrested and conducted to the Tower, as soon as Brandon alleged misconduct on her part and Henry commanded Cromwell to investigate the matter because, of all of the nobles that would sit in judgement on her case, twenty-six of the highest lords in England, there was not a single one of them who would dare to declare her innocent if they believed their King wanted her condemned.

Their first desire would be to please him, whether they believed Anne guilty or innocent.

Despite the fact that he sent for the Executioner as soon as Anne's request was made known to him, thinking that, given the seriousness of the charges against Anne, the chances that she might be declared innocent were slim and knowing that, even if she was acquitted, the Executioner could be sent back to Calais, paid a fee for his trouble even if his services were not required, the man still arrived late, so that Anne was executed two days after the others and, before then, left waiting in her lodging in the Tower until her executioner arrived.

He could remember how furious he was when Cromwell told him that the Executioner of Calais had yet to arrive, as he was painfully aware that every hour that Anne remained alive was an hour when he was forced to wait before he could marry his sweet Jane. He had not thought about how Anne might have taken news of the delay, when Kingston told her that her execution was to be postponed by more than a day because her executioner had yet to arrive to do the job.

Was she glad to think that she would live another day, hoping that if she could have a few extra days of life, he would relent and commute her sentence to exile instead of allowing her execution to proceed, or did she just want the Executioner to arrive so that it could all be over?

It troubled him that he couldn't answer this question, despite how long he had known Anne.

The Executioner's face was covered by his mask, with his eyes gleaming through the slits and Henry shivered involuntarily at the sight of the cold anger that burned in those eyes. He could imagine that this was how a man must feel when he died and faced God's judgement, knowing that, no matter how much wealth or power he had enjoyed during his lifetime, those things would avail him nothing now that he was face to face with a judge who would not be swayed by Earthly matters, and who would examine his sins impartially before he pronounced judgement.

"Do you believe it?" The voice was devoid of all emotion, neither angry nor sympathetic, and so cold that Henry imagined icicles falling with each words. There was no hint of a French accent either, something that sent shivers down his spine. Was this really the Executioner of Calais, or just somebody who had assumed his form to speak to him. "Do you believe that she was guilty?"

"They told me that she was!" Henry protested, even though, in his heart, he knew that his protests would avail him nothing. Those cold eyes could probably see beyond his skin, so that they could read his mind, his heart and his soul. He could have no secrets from this man, even if he could deceive everybody else in the world, himself included. "There was an investigation, and a trial, and I was told that she was guilty. I had to act once I was told that. I had no choice. I couldn't allow any subject, not even the Queen, commit treason and get away with it!"

"Did you attend the trial?" The Executioner enquired of him. "Did you think to attend, concealed by a screen if you were afraid of what might happen if you were seen there in person? Were you there to see her condemned... or was there somewhere else that you felt you needed to be?"

Henry could feel a wave of embarrassment suffuse him at this pointed question and he was sure that, if not for the chill of his bedchamber, his cheeks would be scarlet.

While Anne's trial had occupied his thoughts in those days, and while he had spent time with Archbishop Cranmer, pressing him to find grounds for their marriage to be annulled so that he could be certain that Anne's daughter would never be able to sit on his throne ahead of a child that his sweet Jane bore him, he knew that he would not have attended her trial, even if he had not found the thought of listening to an account of her crimes unbearable. Those days were spent riding to Wolf Hall to visit Jane and her family and, on the days when he could not get away from London, or when he thought that it was better for him to preserve some discretion, for the sake of protecting Jane's reputation, he spent his time with Jane's brothers, who remained at court.

He wanted to spend time with his future brothers-in-law, to show them that they would never have cause to regret that their sister had won his heart. He was determined that the Seymours would benefit far more from his favour than the Boleyns had because he was determined to show the world how much he loved Jane.

The last thing he wanted was to see Anne again.

If he saw her again, he was certain that, if he did not strangle her with his own hands as soon as he laid eyes on her, there was an even greater risk, a risk that she would be able to bewitch him once more, making him forget all about her betrayal, about all the pain and strife she had brought to him, his daughter and his country, that she would make him forget that he loved Jane and longed to marry her, forget that he wanted to set her aside even before he learned of her crimes, and leaving him able to think of her only as the woman he loved and for whom he had risked all.

He couldn't take the chance that she would convince him to take her back as his Queen.

"Why not?" The Executioner's voice was grave as he asked this question, plucking the thought from Henry's mind and pressing him on the subject. "Why should you have been unwilling to take her back as your Queen? If you learned that she was innocent, would you not think that it was her right to resume her place by your side, as your Queen? Would you not feel that you would be honour-bound to give up the woman, Jane Seymour, and know that she could not be your Queen, however much you and she might have wished for it?"

Henry knew that he should have been able to say that, if Anne was innocent, he would have recognized that it was his duty to restore her to her place as his Queen, or he could argue that, innocent or not, his marriage to Anne was still an unlawful union, one that he would have been obliged to dissolve, whether she was guilty or not, and that he would still have been free to make Jane his new wife, as soon as the legalities of the annulment were concluded, but he couldn't force his tongue to speak either statement because he couldn't be sure that either was true.

If he was presented with proof of Anne's innocence before her trial took place, and he declared that the charges against her were groundless, vindicating her before the people, they would not have accepted it if he had then declared that, although Anne was innocent, she was not truly his wife and he was still going to set her aside and raise Jane to the throne in her place.

They would believe that the trial was manufactured to free him and that even though he could not go through with allowing the execution of an innocent woman, he was still prepared to do whatever he could to be rid of her, now that he had found somebody else.

Even if he knew, would he have saved Anne's life, or would he have chosen to let her die?

Would her life have mattered more to him than the chance of being free to marry Jane?

"Only you can answer that question." The Executioner told him. "And you can't answer it until you know the truth. Sheathing his sword, he reached out to take Henry's arm in a vice-like grip, his fingers as hard and cold as stone as they wrapped around his bicep. "We need to take a journey."

"Where?" Henry asked, afraid of where the Executioner might take him.

The Executioner shook his head. "Not 'where'. When."

Great gusts of icy air wafted through the bedchamber, even though none of the windows were open, and Henry found himself shivering. He watched with wide eyes as the walls of the room seemed to melt away, the panelling replaced by cold, grey stones, the fine furniture disappearing and leaving behind only a bare stretch of corridor. It was dark and dank, so much so that Henry didn't need to ask where the Executioner had brought him. Two men were walking in front of them and Henry followed, knowing without looking that the Executioner had fallen into step beside him.

He recognized Cranmer by his purple vestments, and he knew the other man as Sir William Kingston, Constable of the Tower, the man in whose care Anne was placed for her final days.

_"Master Kingston, tell me, how is the Queen?" Cranmer asked anxiously. He could not refer to Anne as Queen any longer, though Henry suspected that he probably wanted to._

_"Truthfully, in the early days of her captivity, she often spoke rather wildly; for example, that it would not rain until she was released." Master Kingston made his report in a matter of fact manner. "But now, according to her almoner, preparations for death have increasingly occupied her thoughts, and so I believe she is reconciled to it."_

"Can anybody truly become reconciled to such a fate, I wonder." The Executioner mused aloud. Henry started at his words, looking at Cranmer and Kingston, expecting them to turn around and realize that they were being followed, every word they spoke overheard by their sovereign, but they gave no indication that they had heard. "They can't hear us, or see us. This is the past, as it happened, and there is nothing that I can do to change it... unless you let me."

"What do you..."

"Not yet." The Executioner cut him off before he could voice his question. "In time, you will know."

_"I am glad. I am glad." Cranmer spoke the words softly, looking close to tears. "Although it grieves me that I must cause her further pain."_

_When they reached the door of Anne's lodging, he waited for Kingston to knock before they were admitted. Anne had been sitting on her bed while the maids assigned to tend to her needs cleaned the chamber. Once he entered, one of the maids left her task and began to help him set out the items he had brought, as well as a cushion on which Anne might kneel to receive the sacraments._

_It was plain that Cranmer did not want to say what he had come to say but he was duty-bound to inform Anne of the investigation he had conducted, at Henry's instigation, as well as the result that investigation had reached, despite the fact that it could make no difference to her position now, except to cause her pain in her final hours. "My lady, I am obliged to tell you that your marriage to the King has been declared null and void." He could barely bring himself to look at her._

_"On what grounds?" Anne asked, clearly taken aback._

_"On the grounds of your close and forbidden degree of affinity to another woman known carnally by the King." Cranmer's difficulty in speaking the words was apparent, and far from surprising. It was he who, in the days before Henry married Anne, had meticulously examined the Bible and countless theological studies to determine that, despite the fact that Mary Boleyn was once Henry's mistress, that was no impediment to his marriage to her younger sister, as they were never married and he had never promised Mary marriage. Back then, Henry would have been incensed if he was told that he couldn't marry Anne. Now, he wanted a different answer._

_"My sister?" Anne confirmed._

_"Yes."_

_"Then my daughter is..." Her eyes were wide at the thought, and her face pale._

_"Yes." Cranmer told her, his eyes shining, as though he was perilously close to weeping. "Elizabeth is to be declared a bastard."_

If Henry was honest with himself, he had to admit that he had wanted to cause Anne pain by letting her know that her daughter was to be declared illegitimate and barred from the succession; if she was Norris' bastard, he wanted her to know that she had not succeeded in securing a royal title and estate for that bastard, and even if Elizabeth was his child, he wanted Anne to know that no child born of her could enjoy his favour, and that, thanks to her crimes, even her child would suffer. However, now that he saw Anne close her eyes upon hearing this news, and could imagine her distress at the thought that he would cast Elizabeth aside too, he felt sickened at the memory of the spite that had made him so determined to see to it that Anne's last hours would be as painful as he could make them, and that she would not even have the consolation of thinking that, whatever happened to her, she could take solace in the fact that her beloved child was safe.

Even if he couldn't allow Elizabeth to retain her title as Princess... and now that he knew that she was his daughter, he couldn't keep himself from thinking that it was never necessary for him to declare her a bastard... he could have waited before he commanded Cranmer to find a reason to annul his marriage, and let Anne die believing that Elizabeth's position was unaltered.

"If she was never your wife, how can she have committed adultery?" The Executioner enquired.

Henry had no answer to give him.

_When Cranmer saw how distressed Anne was by the news he was obliged to give her, he hastened to comfort her, as best he could. "Madam, I swear to you I will do everything within my power to protect and support her, and keep her always in the King's good and kind graces."_

_"Thank you." Anne said quietly. "And now, since my time approaches, I beg Your Grace to hear my confession." As Cranmer led her to the spot where a chair was set out for him and a cushion for her, Kingston turned to leave the room, to allow them some privacy, but Anne halted him with her next words. "Also, I should like the constable present when I receive the good Lord."_

_"Madam." Kingston inclined his head, acquiescing to her request and knowing why she made it._

_Like any other condemned prisoner, Anne would never dare to die with a lie on her lips, or after omitting anything from her confession, nor would she perjure herself before God by claiming innocence of sins she had committed. If she did, she would condemn herself to an eternity in Purgatory, as there could be no hope of salvation, of divine mercy or a place in Heaven for somebody who refused to confess her sins and ask for absolution for the crimes she had committed during her lifetime. Cranmer was bound to preserve the seal of the confessional, even after her death, and would not be able to break it, even if Henry himself commanded him to report Anne's words, but as a witness to Anne's last confession, Kingston would be duty-bound to report it if that was her wish, even if her words might cause offence._

_"My child, do you have a confession?" Cranmer asked gently, once he was seated in his chair and Anne was kneeling by his side._

_"Yes. I confess my innocence before God. I solemnly swear, on the damnation of my soul, that I have never been unfaithful to my lord and husband, nor ever offended with my body against him. I do not say that I have always borne towards him the humility which I owed him," she admitted, "considering his kindness and the great honour he showed me and the great respect he always paid me. I admit, too, that I have often taken it into my head to be jealous of him. But God knows, and is my witness, I have not sinned against him in any other way."_

Henry could hear the sincerity of each word she spoke. He had seen the words on paper and dismissed them as a lie... wanted to dismiss them as a lie... but he could not do the same now that he was hearing her for himself. A lump formed in his throat as he listened to the way she spoke about the respect he paid her, and the kindness and honour he showed her. He hadn't shown her much kindness, honour or respect over the past months, and their relationship had deteriorated dramatically, but that had not been what Anne wanted to remember about him.

She wanted to remember the man who had loved her, and who swore that he always would.

_"Think not I say this in the hope to prolong my life," Anne said, as aware as everybody else present that there could be no hope of a reprieve at this stage. "God has taught me how to die and He will strengthen my faith. As for my brother and those others who were unjustly condemned," it was difficult for her to think about George and the other men who died thanks to the allegations made against her but she managed to control herself. "I would willingly have suffered many deaths to deliver them, but since I see it pleases the King, I will willingly accompany them in death, with this assurance: that I shall lead an endless life with them in peace."_

_"In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit." Cranmer made the sign of the Cross on Anne's forehead, blessing her before he turned his attention to Kingston, who rose when Cranmer spoke his name. "Master Kingston, please go and make sure to report my lady's true and last confession, so the world will know it." He ordered, his voice steady._

_"I will." Kingston promised with a bow._

_As soon as he left the room, Anne's calm deserted her and she reached out to clutch at Cranmer's hand. "Mr. Cranmer, I do not suppose that, even at this last hour, the evangelical bishops that we put in place might intervene for me?" She pleaded._

_"Your Majesty, I..." Cranmer, shocked into using the now forbidden address, tried to pull away. He would have loved to be able to give her the hope she craved, would have loved to be able to tell her that, as they spoke, the evangelical bishops who, like him, owed their careers to Anne, were pleading her case with the King, begging him to find it in his heart to show her mercy and allow her to live out her days in quiet exile but he couldn't tell her that. Like everybody else who had once courted Anne's friendship, like everybody who had advanced through her, they were deserting her in their droves, like rats fleeing a sinking ship, and would be of no help to her._

_"No, I understand." Anne said, before he had to tell her that there would be no help coming to her from that quarter. "How could they? Forgive me." She stayed kneeling on the ground, even after Cranmer begged permission to leave her and hastened from the room._

Henry moved forward automatically to help her to her feet, hating to see her kneeling there like that, broken and defeated, but when he touched her, his fingers passed through her and the scene shifted, leaving him feeling disoriented. When he recovered, he registered that he was still in the same room, and that Anne was still there, but she was not kneeling, she was standing, while her maids helped her wash and dress and her almoner read aloud, his words almost melodic.

_"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under Heaven. A time to be born, and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted. A time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to cast away stones and a time to gather stones together. A time to mourn and a time to dance. That which hath been is now and that which is to be has already been. A time to get and a time to lose, a time to keep and a time to cast away. A time to rend and a time to sew, a time to keep silence and a time to speak. I said in my heart, God shall judge the righteous and the wicked for there is a time for every purpose under the sun."_

_As the almoner read, Anne's maids tended to her gown and her shoes and her hair, while Anne dabbed a small amount of rouge on her cheeks to give her some colour. They were almost ready when Master Kingston entered the room but they still had a few final details to see to, so Anne was dismayed when she saw Kingston._

_"Am I to go now? I thought..."_

_"My lady, forgive me." Kingston cut her off. "The executioner has been delayed on the road from Dover and your execution is postponed until twelve o'clock. I wanted to tell you in good time in case..."_

_"Master Kingston? I hear you say I will not die before noon and I am sorry for it, for I thought to be dead by that time and past my pain."_

_"Madam, there will be no pain." Kingston was quick to reassure her. "The blow will be so subtle."_

_"Yes, I heard the executioner was very good." Anne agreed gravely, before letting out an involuntary giggle. "And in any case, I have only a little neck." She was the only one to see the humour of her joke but that didn't keep her from dissolving into half-hysterical laughter._

The room faded around Henry before he had a chance to say a word, Anne's laughter still ringing in his ears, and when it settled again, he could see that she was dressed, a heavy, fur-lined cloak draped about her. He should have known that Anne would be determined that she should look every inch a Queen for her final public appearance, no matter how bleak the circumstances were.

She had had to wait a long time for that title to be hers and, while it might be denied to her now that their marriage had been annulled, nobody could keep her from acting like a Queen now.

_She stepped forward as soon as Kingston entered the room. "Master Kingston, I am ready."_

_"My lady, you must forgive me once again, but the executioner is still not arrived."_

_"What do you say?" Anne asked, as though she could not believe what she was hearing._

_"Madam, your execution is put off until nine o'clock tomorrow morning." Kingston told her._

_"No." Anne said softly, with a slight shake of her head. "No, it cannot be. It is not that I desire death, but I... I thought myself prepared to die. I was prepared." She said, beginning to pace, her agitation evident. "I fear... I fear that a further delay, it will weaken my resolve. Please, if it were possible..."_

_"No, madam." Kingston cut her off. "It is the King's express command."_

_Anne looked ready to cry but, as Kingston turned to leave, she was seized by a sudden, desperate hope. "No, wait! Perhaps I am not meant to die. These postponements, they mean something. Perhaps the King is testing me. I will be sent to a nunnery." There was a catch in her voice, one that begged Kingston to tell her that she was right, that she might be spared, but she had her answer in the look on his face before he pulled away from her and left, and that answer was one that brought a sob from her lips, despite her efforts to control herself._

The Executioner's gaze never flickered from her face. "It was cruel, don't you think? Leaving her like that, waiting?"

" _I'm_ not the one who was late." Henry countered, determinedly stamping down his feelings of pity for Anne and remorse over what had happened to her in her last days. She was the one who wanted the French executioner, any way. If she had settled for an English executioner – and it wasn't as if the man had botched the job with the men – she would never have had to wait.

For a moment, he wondered if the Executioner would strike him for his words but he didn't. Instead, he turned to Henry, his eyes visible through the slits of the mask, watching him curiously, as though he was studying him, to learn what manner of man he was. "Did you believe her?" He asked, his tone cold. "You heard her confession. Do you believe that she was telling the truth. Do you believe that she was innocent, and that she never betrayed you? Do you believe that you sent an innocent woman to her death, so that you could be free to marry again?"

"This isn't my fault!" Henry insisted, unable to keep himself from saying the words. "I didn't make any allegations about her behaviour and I didn't ask anybody else to. I never told Brandon that he should say a word against her, and I never told Cromwell that he should see to it that she was found guilty, even if there was no truth to the charges against her! They're the ones who are responsible for this! They're the ones you should be bothering! None of this is my fault!"

"Wasn't it?" The Executioner challenged him. "Why did you listen to the allegations? Why didn't you speak to her about it before you ordered an investigation, to see what she had to say? Why did you believe that Brandon was telling the truth, when you knew that he hated her – she told you as much herself, didn't she? – and that Cromwell's investigation would be a fair one. You knew that they both knew that you wanted to be free, and that they both wanted her removed. You let them proceed when you knew this, without investigating for yourself, and that makes you responsible for what happened. Whatever they did, you allowed them to do it."

"I trusted them." Henry protested, his words sounding hollow to his own ears. "They had no reason to want her _dead_ , even if they didn't want her to be my Queen."

"Didn't they?" The Executioner asked, gripping his arm and pulling them out of the scene, through a void of blackness, before they emerged in another room, this time in the palace.

_Cromwell's servant bowed to his master before telling him the identity of his guest, although Chapuys followed immediately behind him and Cromwell could see him for himself. "His Excellency the Imperial ambassador." He announced, stepping back so that Chapuys could move forward._

Although he knew that neither man would be able to see or hear him, Henry moved as silently and unobtrusively as he could, standing directly in front of the table, so that he was well-placed to see every expression that might cross their faces as they spoke, and hear every word they said. The Executioner stood by his side, a silent and watchful presence.

_Cromwell was never a man who smiled often but Henry could see that the expression on his face was warm and welcoming as he greeted Chapuys, as though he viewed the other man as a friend._

_"Your Eminence, you are most welcome. Please be seated." Cromwell indicated a chair._

_"You are most gracious, Mr Secretary." Chapuys responded._

Henry noted that he too sounded friendlier than he would have expected. He knew, from letters intercepted before they could be sent on to the Emperor, that Chapuys did not hold a high opinion of Cromwell, believing him to have played a large part in showing Henry the means by which he could set Katherine aside, an action that Chapuys deplored, but even taking into account the need to refrain from openly hostile behaviour, for the sake of diplomacy, Henry would not expect the Imperial ambassador to behave as warmly towards one who had aided Anne in her rise, not when he usually considered everybody connected with her and everybody who supported her an enemy, to himself, to the Emperor and to Katherine's interests.

_Cromwell, never a man to waste much time on pleasantries, got down to business straight away. "As I told you, His Majesty is most desirous of making an alliance with the Emperor. I believe also that such an alliance would be greatly to the benefit of this country." He passed a goblet of wine into Chapuys' hand as he spoke, and then took a seat at the table with him._

_"I have communicated with the Emperor." Chapuys told him. "He also is eager to find a way to make a new and strong alliance."_

Henry snorted in response to this, glancing hastily at both Cromwell and Chapuys, half-afraid that they might have heard him, but they were blind and deaf to his presence.

_Chapuys was still speaking. "And to show his good will, I can tell you that he is willing to persuade His Holiness Pope Paul not to publish the sentence of excommunication against the King, which would have deprived him of his throne."_

"I don't need the blessing of the Bishop of Rome to rule my kingdom!" Henry exclaimed, incensed, before remembering that they couldn't hear him and would be completely unmoved by his protest. Although the Executioner's face was hidden, Henry suspected that his ghostly guide was rolling his eyes at his words.

Even though Henry knew that Cromwell's focus would be on keeping the meeting amicable, and that his Lord Chancellor would say or do nothing to offend Chapuys if he could avoid doing so, he still felt disgruntled that the man who often proclaimed himself his most loyal servant, the man who had helped to show him that, as King, he was not subject to the Bishop of Rome, whatever His So-called Holiness might think, made no attempt to remind Chapuys that the Bishop of Rome had no power to deprive a sovereign, anointed by God Himself, of his throne.

_"I am sure His Majesty would wish to express his immense gratitude to your master." Chapuys inclined his head in response to this – smugly, Henry thought. "And in return?"_

_"In the circumstances, after the death of his beloved aunt, Queen Katherine of England,"_ Henry felt his hackles rise at Chapuys' use of that title for Katherine. The Emperor might have managed to bully the Bishop of Rome into declaring that his marriage to Katherine was valid – not that it made a difference to things, except to make Katherine even more stubborn about refusing to accept her true place in life as the Dowager Princess of Wales, Arthur's widow, not his wife, and about encouraging Mary to continue to believe herself her father's legitimate child and his sole, rightful heir and to refuse to obey him as she ought to – but Henry expected that Chapuys, as a guest in his court, should respect him enough to use Katherine's proper title as long as he was under the roof of Whitehall Palace and speaking to one of his officials, _"the Emperor is prepared to offer the King his support for the continuation of his marriage to Anne Boleyn but on condition that the King declare Princess Mary to be his legitimate heir."_

This was not the offer that Cromwell had related to him, or the one that Chapuys had presented to him, when they spoke.

Both had indicated that the Emperor expected that, in return for his friendship and support, Henry should include Mary in the line of succession, but he had not said that he expected her to be named heir to the throne. Henry might have considered, as a gesture of friendship to his new ally and as a gesture of love to the daughter with whom he hoped to reconcile now that Katherine was dead and Mary would be able to acknowledge the truth about her illegitimacy without fearing to cause her mother pain, allowing Mary a place in the line of succession after his legitimate children but he had not imagined that the Emperor would dare to demand that Mary should be placed first in the succession, ahead of any half-siblings born in wedlock – perhaps even ahead of a prince!

If Chapuys had dared to voice such a suggestion in his hearing, he would have cuffed the man and to Hell with the Emperor if he objected to his ambassador being treated in such a manner!

_To do him justice, Cromwell seemed to be as taken aback by this unseemly request as Henry was. He was silent for a moment, rising from the table to gather his thoughts before he spoke. "I accept this is, in many ways, a most generous concession on behalf of the Emperor."_

_"He begs the King to understand it is as far as he is prepared to go." Chapuys insisted, forestalling any attempt that Cromwell might make to negotiate with him about the terms of an alliance._

_"I'll certainly put your proposal to His Majesty." Cromwell promised, returning to the table._

_"With your approval?" Chapuys asked pointedly._

_"Even with my approval, Excellency, this may not be easy." Cromwell remarked._

"What does he mean by demanding that I should make Lady Mary my...?" Henry began, but the Executioner lifted a hand to silence him

"There's more." He said in his stony voice, reaching out to grip Henry by the arm.

The air around Henry shifted, and when he recovered his bearings, he and the Executioner were back in Cromwell's study, but he could sense that it was a different day now.

_Once again, Chapuys was announced by a servant and ushered in to sit in front of Cromwell._

_"Excellency." If Cromwell was surprised by this visit, he hid it well._

_"I wondered if you had put the Emperor's proposals to the king." Chapuys asked at once._

_"Not exactly." Cromwell confessed, leaning forward and steepling his fingers, a thoughtful expression on his face. "I wish with all my heart that we could reach a speedy accommodation. However, in the question of legitimising the Lady Mary, there remains one great obstacle."_

_"You mean the queen. I know she hates the Emperor, as Katherine's nephew. They say that when she was told of his victory over the Turks, she looked like a dog being thrown out of a window."_

Henry thought that, if Anne hated the Emperor, she had just cause for that; but for his intercession on Katherine's behalf, they would have been married years earlier, and he couldn't help but think that this might have made a huge difference to their lives. Perhaps they would have a prince in the nursery now, or more than one, bright, healthy boys who teased their sister, excelled at their lessons and at sport and who would make fine heirs for their father one day, boys that any monarch could be proud to point to as the Princes of his realm.

They might have been happier together than they were.

The feeling of regret was more acute and more painful than Henry could have imagined.

_"But what can we do?" Chapuys asked briskly._

_Cromwell's voice was calm but determined as he answered. "If there is an obstacle in our path, Excellency, we must find a way around it."_

"And it was not long after that that he conducted the investigation against her, was it." The Executioner's words were as hard and cold as ever, without a trace of sympathy or even anger.

It wasn't a question, so Henry didn't answer.

"She carried your child then." The Executioner remarked. "It made no difference to them."

Henry's stomach churned as his mind was flooded with thoughts of what might have happened, if Anne had not miscarried their son, if he had not gone to Cromwell to tell him that he believed their marriage to be invalid. The last thing that Chapuys would have wanted was for him to have a son with Anne, as he must know that, once Henry's marriage could boast healthy male issue, there would be very few men in England who would be foolish enough to support the pretended claims of the Lady Mary. Cromwell would have known that Henry would never listen to any allegations of infidelity on Anne's part when she carried his son; he would have been the one punished for daring to slander the mother of the prince, and he would have paid for that slander with his life.

Were they thinking of poisoning her, those two men who sat there, discussing Anne so coldly? Was it their intention to ensure that she never had a chance to give him a son, as they knew that a son would provide Anne with protection that they could not breach, either by manufacturing false allegations against her or by pressing the Emperor to go back on his word about supporting Henry's marriage to her, the better to see the Lady Mary reinstated as heir to the throne?

Cromwell had made it clear that he believed that an alliance with the Emperor was in England's best interests but had he wanted that alliance badly enough to murder Anne for the sake of it?

"What do you think?" The Executioner asked, as though Henry had spoken his questions aloud. "He's a ruthless man, Mr. Cromwell – though, to do him justice, he has not been planning this as long as somebody else I could name, somebody who wanted her dead for a long time before he saw it done." Without another word, he took Henry's arm again, and pulled him to another scene.

_Brandon held a rosary in his hand, which was the first thing that Henry noted as odd. His friend was not usually a man who spent much time on prayer. He was sitting on a chair, a troubled expression on his face as he stared in front of him, and that was how his wife found him when she entered the room and sat down next to him, looking concerned._

_"What's wrong, husband?"_

_"I'm going to have to attend on the King and that bitch of his at her coronation."_ Brandon complained. The vehemence of his words and the anger in his tone surprised Henry; he knew that Brandon did not like Anne, even in those days, but he would not have expected such naked hatred, nor could he imagine what Anne had done to earn such enmity, especially when there was a time when relations between Brandon and Anne's relatives had seemed quite cordial. _"What did Wolsey used to call her? The Black Crow."_

_"Can you not plead some indisposition?" Catherine Brandon suggested._

_"I could," Brandon allowed, "even though the King has made me High Constable for the day. But if I did, His Majesty would remove my head and then I should be genuinely indisposed."_

_"Very well." Catherine agreed. "So keep your head. It's a pretty head, in any case, and I don't want to lose it either." She kissed him on the temple before moving to sit directly opposite him, a determined expression on her face as she counselled her husband. "But store up your knowledge and your anger. Don't act impulsively, it's always a mistake. But one day, with others so disposed, use them both, and if you can, bring her down and destroy her."_

_Brandon's nod was almost imperceptible, but Henry could see it, as could the Executioner._

"'Bring her down and destroy her'," the Executioner quoted. "Did you suspect that their feelings against her were so strong at the time?"

"Of course not!" Henry exclaimed at once. "I would have dealt with them if I knew." He might not have sent Brandon to the scaffold, their friendship was strong enough to ensure that he wouldn't have made his friend pay with his life for his hatred of Anne, even when his love for her was at its height, but he would definitely have banished Brandon from court, and refused to allow him to enjoy any position of influence, for fear that his hatred of Anne would impact the way he performed his duties and that instead of helping to bolster her position, he would work against her.

"Do you still believe that he did not want to see her dead? Do you believe that he would have kept silent if he believed her to be innocent?" The Executioner asked. Henry shook his head mutely. "Good." The Executioner told him, a hint of approval entering his tone for the first time. "That's a start. There is one more thing that you need to see, and then I will explain the offer."

Henry knew what he would have to watch next and his heart sank. He had known from the moment when the Executioner first started to bring him to the past that it was inevitable that this moment would come, sooner or later, but that did not make the prospect of what he was about to witness any more palatable. He closed his eyes as the world around him began to shift and it was with great reluctance that he opened them again once the world settled, knowing what he would see when he did, knowing that it was a sight that would haunt him until the end of his days.

_Anne was ready when Kingston arrived but she didn't turn around when she heard his approaching footsteps, though her maids curtseyed at his entrance. She stayed as she was for a moment, facing the mirror that was held out before her, so that she could see how she looked, and she didn't turn around to face Kingston until he addressed her._

_"Madam, the hour approaches and you must make ready." He told her._

_"Acquit yourself of your charge, for I have been long prepared." Anne's words were calm._

Henry could not suppress a gasp at the sight of her face. He had expected that her eyes would be red-rimmed with tears, and that her face would be pink and puffy after hours of crying, given the state she was in when he last saw her, the second time her execution was postponed, but Anne's face bore no trace of weeping or of distress. She looked serene, ready to face her fate, and her dignity was absolute. Although she was dressed more simply than he was accustomed, with fewer jewels and no tiara or coronet to signify her status as Queen, he thought she had never looked more beautiful, so much so that it hurt to look at her, hurt to know what he was about to lose.

_Even Kingston seemed struck by her appearance, and it was a moment before he could speak again, holding out a tightly rolled purse to her. "The King asks that you take this purse." He explained to her. It has twenty pounds in it, to pay the headsman for his services and to deliver alms to the poor."_

_Anne accepted the purse with a quiet "Thank you."_

_"Will you and your ladies follow me?" Kingston asked, waiting for her answering nod before leading the way from the room and leaving Anne and her attendants to arrange themselves in formation, her almoner preceding her and her maids following._

Henry pulled away from the Executioner and walked by Anne's side, but she didn't know that he was there. He was surprised when, as they neared the door that would lead them out to the Tower Green, where the scaffold had been erected, he could hear derogatory shouts from the crowd who were waiting to see Anne die, and even more surprised when his reaction to those cries was one of anger and indignation. He wanted to be able to speak out, to tell them that the woman they were deriding was guiltless of the crimes she was accused of, and that she would never have been brought to this state if not for the lies of her enemies, who were willing to destroy her, by any means necessary... and if not for the fact that her husband wanted to replace her with another.

He felt absurdly proud of Anne for the way she ignored the cries against her, not allowing herself to falter, and he was pleased to see that some of the people blessed her instead of cursing her.

_Anne hesitated only a moment at the foot of the steps leading to the scaffold before gathering her courage and mounting them, each step bringing her nearer to her death. Some people had to be dragged to the scaffold, even men, seasoned warriors who were thought brave, but Anne let her own feet carry her there, unwilling to allow the last sight of her to be of guards carrying her up to the scaffold, kicking and screaming, or for her last moments to be tainted by cowardice._

_On the scaffold, a second executioner awaited her, the twin of Henry's guide._

_Her voice was steady as she addressed Kingston. "Master Kingston, I pray you not to give the signal for my death until I have spoken what I have a mind to speak."_

_It was the right of every prisoner condemned to death to speak before the axe – or, in this case, the sword – fell, so Kingston nodded agreement. "Ma'am."_

_Satisfied that she would be allowed to speak, unhindered, Anne faced the crowd._ Standing beside her, Henry could see Cranmer in the crowd, there to lend her what support he could, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Wyatt huddled by the wall, grief-stricken at the prospect of witnessing Anne's bloody end but unwilling to allow her to face it alone. He had loved her.

_"Good Christian people," Anne began, a little more loudly than normal, so that her words could be heard over the murmurings of the crowd. As she spoke, they stilled, as though by magic, remaining silent so that she could say what she had to say. "I have come here to die according to the law, and thus yield myself to the will of the King, my lord." There were a few shouts of 'Long live the King!' in response to this before silence fell again, allowing Anne to continue. "And if, in my life, I ever did offend the King's Grace, then surely with my death, I do now atone. I pray, and beseech you all to pray for the life of the King, my sovereign lord and yours, who is one of the best princes on the face of the Earth, who has always treated me so well, wherefore I submit to death with a goodwill, humbly asking pardon of all the world. If anyone should take up my case, I ask them only to judge it kindly."_

_At Anne's nod, her three maids, all of them weeping softly, stepped forward to help her take off her heavy cloak, her necklace and cover her long hair with a simple coif, so that the executioner would be able to make his sword blow without any hindrance. Anne removed her earrings herself, passing them into the hand of one of the maids as she thanked them._

_The executioner stepped forward, kneeling at her feet, as custom demanded. "Madame, forgive me for what I must do." He asked her, his accent strong and his voice gentler by far than the voice Henry had become accustomed to hearing from the Executioner who stood by his side._

_"Gladly." Anne assured him, passing the purse to him. "And here is your purse." The executioner stepped back to allow her to say her final words. "Thus I take my leave of the world, and of you." Anne told the crowd. "And I heartily desire you all to pray for me."_

Henry hoped that she could take some comfort from the number of people who pledged to pray for her, all calling for mercy for her soul.

As Anne knelt, and her almoner began to read from the Psalms, Henry shut his eyes, knowing what was about to happen, knowing that he couldn't keep it from happening and not wanting to watch. It was bad enough for him to know that he had allowed an innocent person, a woman he once loved beyond all others, to be executed. He didn't want to see the deed done.

"No!" The Executioner's voice was fierce, filled with fury for the first time since he came and, when he laid his cold, heavy hand on Henry's shoulder, Henry's eyelids became transparent, leaving him able to see what was happening as clearly as if his eyes were wide open. "You ordered this done and you will watch it. You will watch every detail of it." He ground out the words angrily.

Left with no alternative, no way of shutting out the sight before him, Henry watched as Anne knelt down, praying, watched as, one by one, the crowds fell to their knees in front of her, with Brandon as the last to kneel. His own knees twitched and, if not for the Executioner's iron grip of his shoulder, he too would have fallen to his knees.

When Anne's head was struck from her body, he opened his mouth to let out a wordless cry, and the world faded to black around him, only this time, they did not emerge in another scene, nor did they return to his bedchamber. It was just him and the Executioner, standing in a void.

Was this Purgatory?

Was their next stop to be Hell, so that Henry might have a foretaste of what awaited him once he died, the price he would have to pay for what he had allowed happen to Anne?

He felt moisture on his cheek and, when he touched the skin, he could feel tears streaking down his face. "Why did you show me all of this?" He demanded of the Executioner. "What was the point? It's in the past, and I can't change that."

"Yes, you can." The Executioner contradicted him. "That's why I'm here, to offer you a choice. If you choose, I can turn back time, to before any of this happens. You can choose to save her or you can do nothing, and let her die. However," he lifted a hand before Henry could declare that he wanted to accept the offer, if he could bring Anne back. "There is a price that you will have to pay in return for my help; if you save her, you must keep her as your Queen, for the rest of your lives. Are you willing to sacrifice the life you have now in order to save her?" Through the slits of the mask, the eyes that met Henry's were so dark that they looked liquid, but there was no emotion in his voice as he spelled out the details of his offer, no hint about which course of action he expected or wanted Henry to take.

Henry was too stunned to speak, not knowing what it was he wanted, what he should say. He was sorry now that he had let Anne die but how could he bring her back, if that was the price? How could he give up the freedom to marry Jane, how could he give up the happiness she had brought him, his reconciliation with Mary and the son he would soon have?

If the Executioner could hear what he was thinking, he ignored it. "The choice is yours."


	3. Choice

Henry could scarcely believe his ears, and he stood staring at the Executioner for a long time, processing his words and half-expecting, half-hoping that he would wake up, safe in his own bed, and realize that this had all been a strange, admittedly very vivid dream, that the scenes he had seen were the product of his imagination rather than a true depiction of past events.

If he could believe that this was all a dream, then he could believe that he was not being faced with the choice the Executioner had just presented him with.

"Do you realize what it is you are asking of me?" He demanded.

"Of course." The Executioner nodded his head slightly by way of confirmation.

"What if I take back her execution but still annul our marriage?" He suggested, a strong note of desperation entering his voice. Surely there was a way in which he could negotiate with the Executioner, some way that he could persuade him that, while he could save Anne's life, he could still find a way to free himself from her so that he could marry Jane, and have their son.

If the Executioner wanted Anne to live – and he must, if he was willing to intercede for her like this – then maybe he would be willing to bargain in order to ensure that Henry chose to save her.

Anne was innocent, he believed that now, and the idea that he had willingly sent an innocent person to her death – five innocent people, as the men accused of being Anne's lovers must be as guiltless as she was – was not one that he was comfortable with. If he could turn back time and save Anne, he wanted to do that, but he couldn't give up Jane, much less the child she carried.

Anne had failed to give them a son during the three years of their marriage, so if he agreed to reinstate her as his Queen, if he pledged that she would be his wife as long as they lived and that he would never make an attempt to set her aside, now or in the future, ensuring that he would be limited to the children she bore him as the heirs to his throne, she might never bear him a son, or any other child. England might never have the Prince it needed for its future security, leaving little Elizabeth as the sole heir to the throne and himself with a struggle to guarantee her succession against Mary's supporters, but Jane had his child in her belly now, and that child might be a boy.

How could he rob his people of a Prince of Wales they could look to as their future King?

How could he erase the existence of his child entirely, a child who would never be conceived if he was not able to take Jane as his wife, much less born to live and be loved by his parents?

He was happy now, and despite the means by which his happiness was bought, he was sure that he deserved to be happy. He was owed that much, at the very least.

He didn't deserve to have his marriage to Jane erased from his life while he was forced to take back a wife he had wanted to be rid of even before he was led to believe that she was an adulteress, and morally unfit to be his Queen. He didn't deserve to be robbed of his chance to have a son – many sons – with Jane, a family of fine, healthy Princes who would show the world that he was as strong and potent as any other man, despite the previous difficulties he had had in siring healthy male heirs with Katherine and Anne. He didn't deserve to be left with only Elizabeth as the heir to the throne if Anne failed to produce a brother for her. He didn't deserve for the progress he had made with Mary, his pearl, to be erased as though they had never been able to move on from the past and reconcile as father and daughter, as though Mary had never come to her senses and recognized the invalidity of his marriage to her mother and her own illegitimacy.

What if he saved Anne's life, only to be left in a position where he was forced to send his own daughter to the scaffold for treason, if she could not bring herself to accept the truth about the illegality of his union with her mother as long as Anne lived and Mary felt that her submission would work to bolster the position of her enemy and of the half-sister who bore the title of Princess, the title that Mary herself no longer had a right to? He didn't want to lose his daughter but if she had not seen sense at last, he would have had not choice but to order her execution.

Before Mary finally agreed to take the Oath, he was steeling himself to do what he knew would have to be done, if his daughter could not be made to see reason, and he didn't want to repeat the experience. He loved his daughter and did not want her to be harmed if it could be helped.

There had to be another way to resolve this situation, a way in which he could both save Anne and make Jane his Queen and his son by Jane his heir.

He would be kind to Anne, and he would see to it that she and Elizabeth were never allowed to want for anything, and that they would be honoured by all as two of the highest-ranking ladies in England, second only to his Queen. Anne was clever, he knew that, and more importantly, she was sensible. She had to know that, if he wanted to set her aside, there was nothing she could do to prevent it. she wouldn't be foolish and stubborn like Katherine, clinging to the title of Queen when it was denied her, refusing to allow him to treat her generously, and she certainly wouldn't try to turn Elizabeth against her father, teaching her to deny Jane's claim to the title of Queen, much less the legitimacy of the children that Jane would bear him, in time.

He would even be willing to give Anne a further incentive to cooperate, by declaring that Elizabeth was legitimate, and a Princess of England, as he married Anne in good faith and had no wish to see their child suffer, not if her mother was sensible enough to realize that there was a good chance that she would never be able to bear him a son and that she would serve him and his country better if she stepped aside to allow another woman to succeed where she had failed. If Anne could bring herself to step back for his sake, and his country's, she would deserve to be rewarded. Elizabeth's standing would not be diminished in any way, and he would always honour her as the eldest Princess of England, cherishing her as dearly as he always had, if not more.

Anne wouldn't suffer either, if she was would only cooperate with him. Save for the fact that, once he married Jane, Anne would no longer be able to call herself Queen of England, he would not diminish the state she enjoyed. She would have her title of Marquess of Pembroke, a title he would make no attempt to deprive her of – he would even be willing to sweeten his proposal by making her a Duchess, so that she would rank as one of the first peers in England, and nobody would be able to insult her – and the lands he granted her when he elevated her to the peerage would ensure that she and Elizabeth would be able to live in as grand a state as they ever did, in whatever palace or manor Anne chose to reside in, and they would both be welcome at his court.

He would even deed Hampton Court to her, if she wished!

Whatever she asked of him, it would be hers, if she would only set him free.

Elizabeth would remain in line for the throne, second only to any legitimate sons he had, and although she would not be his heir, once Jane bore his son, Anne's title and estates would be a very handsome inheritance for her, ensuring that she would always live as a Princess should.

He could make things right for Anne without keeping her as his wife, he was sure of that. All he needed was for the Executioner to agree to soften his conditions, just a little.

He was surprised and dismayed when he heard a gruff, dry chuckle emanating from the Executioner; surprised because he had thought his guide incapable of feeling humour, much less expressing it, and dismayed because he knew, in his heart, that this meant that there was no hope that he would be able to bargain with him, no way that he could coax him into softening the terms of the deal, no matter how many incentives he was prepared to offer Anne.

"Have I somehow given you the impression that this is a negotiation, Your Majesty?" The honourific was infused with mockery and the eyes that stared at Henry were cold. "If I have, then permit me to make it plain to you that it is not. This is not something that you can bargain over, and you can't buy your way into getting what you want by promising her favours. This is about justice for her, and whether or not you care about that. Do you realize how rare it is for anybody, be he a King or a beggar, to be offered the chance to undo his mistake? To wipe the slate clean and erase his sin entirely? I have explained the offer; you may either choose to leave things as they are, and move on with your life, or you can save her, and keep her as your wife. These are your only two choices, and only you can decide what you will do."

He should have said that he was going to keep things as they were. Henry almost said as much aloud, almost managed to convince himself that this was the only choice he could ever make.

Surely he could not be expected to throw away everything he had with Jane in order to save Anne's life, even if he knew that she was innocent, and that it was wrong for him to have allowed her to be executed. He had a made a mistake, he was prepared to admit that, but why should his mistake cost him the life he had made with Jane, as well as the promise of a son?

Other men made mistakes, without having to pay such a high price for them.

Surely it was no fault of his that Anne had managed to alienate so many people at court, to the point where Cromwell, once her ally, a man who had gone to considerable pains to bolster Anne's place as Queen however he could, and Brandon who, while he did not like her, had helped her family put her on the throne, were willing to accuse her of a capital crime, and to see to it that she was convicted and executed based on false charges? Maybe, if Anne had treated them both more respectfully, they would not have chosen such a method of getting rid of her, even when they knew that he desired to be free of her. They could well have found some other means of setting him free without harming Anne, perhaps by meeting with her father in secret, explaining to Boleyn that his daughter would be repudiated and advising him that the best thing he could do for her was to help her see that it was in her best interests, and Elizabeth's, to cooperate.

Anne could have had an annulment and an honoured and comfortable retirement, if she had not made enemies of the men who wanted to help Henry be free of her.

"Are you suggesting that it is _her_ fault that your friend, and your councillor, lied about her and that you believed those lies?" The Executioner asked sharply, his disapproval plain.

"No." Henry said quickly, unwilling to anger the Executioner if he could help it. Who knew where his guide might take him next if he did? "But she didn't help matters for herself, did she?"

The Executioner chose not to respond to this, leaving Henry alone with his thoughts.

If he told the Executioner that he wished to continue with his life as it was, was his guide bound to respect his decision or, despite what he had said about this being Henry's choice, would he force him to endure more scenes of Anne's pain during the final days of her life, and more scenes that would make it clear to him that the men he had trusted were unworthy of his trust, scenes that would leave him unable to trust either Brandon or Cromwell again, even if he had to pretend that he did, as he would never be able to tell anybody about what he had seen?

A thought struck him, one that sent chills down his spine; if he refused, would he be shown scenes of the Seymours next, scenes that implicated Sir John and his sons, perhaps even Jane? It was difficult and painful enough to know that Brandon had conspired against Anne, wanting her dead even when he knew that Henry loved her – something that should have ensured that he would want to protect Anne, for the sake of his friend, rather than wanting to see her destroyed – but the mere idea of learning that Jane might have been party to this was unbearable.

Surely his sweet Jane would never have supported such a plan, even if she loved him and even if she was as eager to marry him as he was to marry her. Most women would like the idea of becoming Queen, he knew that, but he couldn't believe that Jane was the kind of woman who would ever be ruled by ambition, as some might be. Surely she would have told him if she became aware of a conspiracy to bring about Anne's death, choosing to save an innocent woman, even if that might mean that she would never be Queen... but he couldn't help but wonder.

Jane was a sweet woman, a kind woman but she was also human, and there were few courtiers who were devoid of ambition, fewer still who would be unaware of what they and their family would gain if one of their number became Queen, so he couldn't dismiss the possibility that she was involved, that she might have kept quiet for the sake of her family's prospects.

Even if Jane wasn't involved, however, _he_ was.

He had allowed himself to be convinced of Anne's guilt, without investigating matters properly, because he had wanted to be free of her, wanted it so badly that he was willing to wash his hands of Anne entirely as soon as Brandon's accusation showed him a way in which he could be free of her without having to expose himself to the embarrassment of pleading his affinity with Mary Boleyn to free himself from Anne, an idea that had revolted him, especially as he feared the public reaction to such an announcement. Those who had supported Katherine would mock him for marrying Anne, who was barred to him on the same grounds, accusing him of manipulating the law for his own ends, and he did not want that. He would have done almost anything to avoid it.

He had not even ensured that she would receive a fair trial, and he was the one who signed her death warrant, giving Anne's enemies written permission to murder her.

He might not have wielded the sword but he had helped to murder her, and murder was a sin.

If God would punish him for his part in Anne's murder, judging him to bear guilt because he had failed to make the necessary effort to investigate the matter for himself, how much more severe would his punishment be if he was offered the opportunity to save her and he refused it, essentially condemning Anne to death a second time, this time knowing that she was innocent?

When the time came, God would not be impressed by Henry's crown, nor would He be inclined to listen to excuses that Henry did not want to make any sacrifices in order to do the right thing.

God had sacrificed His own son so might He expect Henry to do the same thing now?

"Can I have some time?" He heard himself plead with the Executioner, desperate for a chance to think about the choice he was faced with. It was not a decision to be made in haste. His future, the future of his family and the future of his country rested on this choice he would have to make.

The Executioner nodded. "You may."

"How long... how long do I have before I need to answer?" Henry asked, his throat dry.

"The month is May." The Executioner told him in a calm, even voice. "Tomorrow will be the sixteenth. You know when I will need your answer."

The 19th of May.

Just days away.

Anne would be dead a year on that day, and he would have to choose whether he was going to leave her dead or if he was going to take back her death and restore her as his Queen, saving her life but at a cost so high that he shrank from the thought of paying it.

Within a matter of days, he would have to make the most important decision of his life.

* * *

_Three days to go..._

When he woke up, Henry wasn't certain what it was that he wanted to do, and he knew that there was nobody with whom he could speak about the choice he was now faced with, no matter how much he would have liked to be able to voice his feelings to somebody, anybody. He could not speak to Jane, not when the matter touched her as well as him, and although, under other circumstances, he might have sought Brandon's counsel, in the hope that his friend would be able to help him weigh the advantages and disadvantages of accepting this offer but, not only would Brandon believe him to be a madman if he shared the details of his encounter with the Executioner, Henry wasn't sure that he would be able to look the other man in the face without wanting to break his jaw, not after what he had seen and had learned of Brandon's true nature.

Brandon was the one who began all this, by accusing Anne, and he could no longer be trusted.

When he went out riding, taking with him only a small handful of guards to ensure his safety, he intended to ride out for a few hours, to clear his head before he returned to the palace to closet himself away to consider the question of what he should do, but he found himself riding in a certain direction, scarcely realizing where he was going until he could see a manor in the distance, and recognized it as Hundson House, the residence he had granted Mary once Anne was dead and, with Elizabeth declared a bastard, there was no need for Mary to be obliged to serve as a maid in waiting in the child's royal household, which was soon to be greatly reduced, in any case.

Since Elizabeth no longer enjoyed the title of Princess, she had no need of such a grand establishment of servants as he once granted her, when he was still in love with her mother and wanted to make it clear that, in the absence of a Prince, he favoured his daughter by Anne as heir to the throne, not Katherine's daughter, and since he had no intention of allowing her to remain the heir to the throne a moment longer, there was no need for her position to be bolstered by Mary's presence as one of the maids in waiting assigned to Elizabeth's entourage and Henry had not wanted his daughter serving a child who might not be his.

No matter how obstinate Mary was, no matter how angry he was with her over her refusal to accept the truth about his union with her mother, he had been determined that no daughter of his should have to serve Norris' child, and so he had given orders for her to have her own household, although he was not yet prepared to receive Mary at court, despite Jane's efforts to encourage him to welcome her back into his life, not until the girl admitted that she was nothing but a bastard.

Hundson was not as large or as grand as the palaces in which Mary had made her home when she still enjoyed the title of Princess, and the number of servants employed to tend her was much smaller than it was back then, as Henry was careful not to give his daughter the wrong impression, not wanting her to take Anne's execution as a sign that she could expect him to forget what he knew about the invalidity of his marriage to Katherine, even for her sake, but he had seen to it that the manor was a pleasant one, which would make a comfortable residence for his daughter, and he had given orders for an adequate household to staff it, even before Mary finally ceased to claim the title of Princess, so that she would enjoy a state suitable to a King's daughter.

Jane had wanted him to be kind to Mary, and he saw the sense in showing his eldest daughter some generosity in anticipation of her submission, wanting to show Mary that the hardship she had endured – admittedly through her own stubbornness, as she could have ended her servitude at Hatfield with a few words or a letter, anytime she chose; even if Anne had objected to Mary being favoured with his attention, he knew that he would have welcomed Mary back to court as soon as the girl admitted the truth about her bastard status – while Anne held power was over and that, if she would be his loving and obedient daughter, she would be as kindly treated as she could ever hope to be, welcomed back into her father's favour, and his strategy had borne fruit.

Kindness had won Mary over far more quickly than harshness ever could.

It may have taken some time, but Mary had eventually come to see the truth and, when she did, she knew that she had to admit it, however painful it was to accept that she was a bastard. It might have hurt her pride to cease to claim the title of Princess and to content herself with being known simply as Lady Mary but she had seen the truth, and was too honest to deny it.

Since Mary's submission, he had increased her allowance, allowing her to take on more servants, and she even had some highborn ladies in her service, young women who had not been able to secure positions as ladies-in-waiting or maids of honour in Jane's household and who sought places in Mary's household instead, recognizing her as the second lady in England.

When he reached Hundson, one of the soldiers accompanying him hastened forward to bang on the door, explaining to the servant who answered it that the King had come. Within moments, Mary's chamberlain arrived, and bowed deeply as he conducted Henry into the house.

"This is a very great honour, Your Majesty." The man – whose name Henry could not recall, although he usually had a good memory for such details, priding himself on his ability to remember the names of his servants, and even the names of the servants of some of his courtiers – gushed, bowing again once Henry crossed the threshold.

Henry could see from the expression on the other man's face that he was making a mental inventory of the supplies in the pantry, calculating how long it would take for the cooks and kitchen servants to prepare a meal that was fit for the King and horrified by the thought that his sovereign should come to pay a call on the Lady Mary, only to find that the hospitality of her household was lacking. "This is just a short visit. I will not be able to stay for dinner." He said briefly, setting the chamberlain's mind at ease on that count. "I have come to see my daughter."

"Yes, Your Majesty." The chamberlain nodded comprehension. "The Lady Mary is in the parlour, with her maids, and I am certain that she will be honoured to attend you when I let her know..."

"There's no need for that." Henry cut the man off before he could offer to send a message to Mary to let her know that her father had arrived and that she should come to pay her respects to him. He was not here as Mary's sovereign, to be received formally and feted as his royal rank demanded, he was here as her father and he did not want to begin their visit on such a ceremonial note, not when he could easily be the one to go to her. "Show me to the Lady Mary's parlour, so that I may greet my dear daughter." He commanded.

"Yes, Your Majesty." The chamberlain led the way down a corridor leading to a polished oak door, glancing back at Henry for permission before he knocked on the door and announced the illustrious guest for his mistress' benefit. "His Majesty the King is here, my Lady Mary."

As one, Mary and her attendants rose from their chairs as Henry entered the room, setting aside their sewing and sweeping deep curtseys to him, remaining posed thus, heads bent, as he crossed the room with his long-legged stride to stand in front of his daughter, cupping her chin in his hand on the day when he and Jane had last visited Hundson, immediately after Mary's submission, both of them wanting to show her that all was forgiven now that she had yielded. As Jane had said, when he first told her of Mary's submission, knowing that she too would be pleased to know that Mary was no longer their enemy, a family should not be divided, especially the royal family.

They should be together, to show the country an example of a true and loving family.

"Rise, my daughter." He told Mary, taking her hand to help her to her feet. "It is good to see you."

"I am honoured by Your Majesty's visit." Mary responded humbly, keeping her eyes lowered for a moment longer before she finally looked up to meet his eyes, relaxing when she saw that they were full of affection, and that she had no need to fear that his visit might have resulted from some offence on her part. "And it delights me to see that Your Majesty is in good health."

"Not 'Your Majesty', call me 'Father'." Henry corrected her gently, wondering if a time would ever come when Mary would address him as 'Father' first, instead of automatically using his formal honourific. Little Elizabeth had also addressed him as 'Your Majesty' when he last saw her, instead of saluting him as 'Papa', as she had when her mother was still alive, and she was still the little princess he doted on, despite the disappointment he felt over her female sex. Did his daughters believe that, when he set their mothers aside, he had also hardened his hearts to them? Did they see their bastard status as proof of rejection, thinking that if he had loved them, he would have allowed them to retain the title of Princess? The thought was more painful than he cared to admit.

He wanted to believe that Mary knew that, much as he loved her, he was obliged to declare her a bastard when his marriage to her mother was annulled, especially when Katherine was refusing to admit the truth and would have pounced on him if he decided, out of fatherly love, to find a way to allow Mary to continue to be called Princess, declaring it proof that he knew that she was his true wife, just as he wanted to believe that, when Elizabeth was older, she would understand that he could not have taken the chance of allowing her to retain her place as Princess when she might be another man's child, and that restoring her to that title now could be problematic, stirring up issues best left forgotten, but he couldn't convince himself that this was the case.

"Father." Mary amended obediently. "I hope that Queen Jane is well?" She asked, her sincerity plain. Jane had been a true friend to her since Henry had taken her as his wife, always trying to do everything in her power to see to it that Mary was a welcomed and honoured member of the court, and Mary could not resent her, for anything. She was sure that even her sainted mother would rejoice to know that the husband she had loved until her dying moment now had a kind, gentle woman by his side, to soften the harshness that had entered his nature since he met Anne.

"She is well – and the child she carries is strong." Henry reported, watching Mary's reaction to his words. "The astrologers tell me that it will be a healthy son, a fine Prince for England."

He half-expected Mary to betray some sign of disappointment at this news.

Although there were still some in England who believed Mary to be of legitimate birth, and who had campaigned for her restoration as the heiress presumptive to the throne, pending the birth of a legitimate male heir, even when Mary herself had come to recognize her bastard status, the birth of a Prince would ensure that the people would cleave to him as heir to the throne, recognizing that, by virtue of his male sex and his legitimate birth, he had the right to rule when God called Henry to Him. Those who now called for Mary's restoration would transfer their support to the Prince as soon as the child was safely born and in his cradle but, although Mary must be aware of this, her smile at Henry's words was wide and genuine, with no trace of deceit in her eyes.

"I pray to God that he will send Queen Jane a happy hour, and a strong son." She said, thinking that if her place was to be usurped, better that it should be a son of Jane's who would one day rule England in her place than a son of Anne's. If the harlot's last pregnancy had come to term, she would have been invincible, as the King would never have listened to a word against the mother of his son, and Mary would never have been welcomed into favour unless she bowed to Anne as her Queen. Had she refused to yield, Anne might have called for her head once her son was born, and had her wish granted by a King who would be so overjoyed by the birth of a son that he would give her anything. "She is such a good, loving lady that God will surely bless her with a Prince."

"Well said, my dear." Henry said, leaning forward to kiss Mary on the cheek, pleased to know that, when the time came, she would welcome her baby brother. "I hope that, when the Prince is born, you will do him the honour of being his godmother." He invited her. It was Jane who first suggested that Mary should be their son's godmother but Henry thought that it was a good idea.

"I would love to."

"Good." Henry smiled at her before offering his arm to her in a courtly gesture. "Why don't we take a walk outside, Mary?" He suggested, wanting an opportunity to speak to his eldest child alone, without having to worry about their conversation being overheard by prying ears. He wanted to speak to Mary as a father to his daughter, not as a monarch to his subject, and for that they needed privacy, not a cluster of servants and soldiers listening to every word they said and weighing the significance of every word, every glance that passed between them. This was none of their business. It was between him and his child and he intended for it to stay that way. Once they were outside, they walked in silence for a few minutes, until Henry drew his daughter to a stone bench, shaded by a tall tree. "Sit down, Mary, please," he invited her, "I would like to talk to you."

Mary sat down obediently, looking up at him with curious eyes. She didn't say a word, waiting for her father to be the one to speak, but even when he sat down, he was silent at first.

"Are you happy, Mary?" Henry asked at last, turning so that he could look into his daughter's eyes as he asked the question, wanting to know that her answer was truthful and that she would not just be speaking the words she believed he wanted to hear, wanting to please him. "I want you to be happy." He told her, reaching out to caress her cheek. "And I know that, in the past..."

"The past is behind us, Father." Mary answered hastily, her eyes widening as she took in the serious expression on her father's face, wondering what had prompted this unexpected visit, when he had only come to see her at Hundson once before, and even then, he sent messengers ahead several days in advance so that she and her household would have the time to make the necessary preparations in order to receive them in a fitting manner, just as he would have sent a message to any noble he intended to honour with a royal visit. Even when she had her household in Ludlow as the acknowledged Princess, he had never come unannounced. "I am happy to be reconciled with you, and Queen Jane has been so kind to me that I cannot help but love her too."

"I know that she thinks very highly of you, Mary." Henry said, knowing that Jane was sincere in her desire to welcome Mary. She was a friend to Mary as well as a stepmother. He rose from the bench, pacing back and forth for a minute or two before he sat down again, taking Mary's hand in his and sighing inwardly before he spoke again, knowing that he was about to broach a sensitive subject, one that had divided him from Mary in the past and that he feared might divide them again if he couldn't deal gently with the matter, without antagonizing his daughter or making her doubt the rightness of her submission and his decisions. "When the late Queen was alive," he began, feeling unable to refer to Anne by name. Mary knew who he was speaking of, and he felt her stiffen in response to his referring to Anne as Queen. Even if she now understood that her mother was never Queen, it was clear that she was not ready to think of Anne as such, even when he spoke of her as his Queen. "She and I both sent to you, to ask you to swear the Oath, recognizing my union with your mother as unlawful. You refused to take it."

"I was very young, Father." Mary excused herself hastily, her eyes widening with fear, as though she expected him to tell her that he no longer trusted in the sincerity with which she had taken the Oath, and intended to deprive her of the rewards she was given for her submission, perhaps even proceeding against her for treason, in case she sought to challenge the Prince's right to rule, now that Jane was carrying a child and her father believed that he no longer needed her in reserve as a potential heir. She was not unaware of the fact that, if his marriage to Jane was not blessed with children, he would want to see a child of his succeed him rather than the son of her Aunt Margaret, and she also knew that the people were more likely to welcome her as their Queen than little Elizabeth. "I never wanted to offend you, and it grieved me that you were angry with me but..."

"And your mother still lived." Henry said gently, knowing how much Mary had loved her mother. With hindsight, he could recognize that, even if Mary would have been willing to accept her demotion from Princess to Lady Mary if she was the only one concerned, she loved Katherine so much that, when her mother refused to accept that she was not Queen of England, it was perhaps inevitable that Mary would have sided with her, not wanting to hurt her mother by publicly acknowledging the fact that Katherine was never truly Queen. As long as Katherine cleaved to that lie, Mary's love for her mother would have compelled her to follow her example. "I understand that you didn't want to hurt her, and she would have been upset if she knew that you took the Oath."

If he was honest with himself, he could admit that he had not wanted to hurt Katherine either.

He never doubted that he was duty-bound to extricate himself from the sinful union he had entered into as a boy, once he recognized that God was trying to show him, through the sons he had lost, that his union with Katherine displeased Him, especially as he needed to give his people a legitimate heir to his throne, to rule over them when he was gone, but he wished that Katherine could have been sensible, so that the annulment could have been accomplished with a minimum of pain for her, but she had not allowed that. She had insisted on being obstinate, to her cost.

Mary nodded but she did not speak, biting her lip to keep the tears from flowing. She felt as though she had never had an opportunity to truly grieve for her mother, never had the peace she needed to reconcile herself with the fact that God had seen fit to take her loving and gentle mother from her, especially when, if she had lived but a few short months longer, she would have seen Anne's hold on the King falter, and known that her enemy had fallen at last. If her mother could only have lived to know this, Mary was sure that her health would have quickly rallied.

She would have known that she was vindicated, that the harlot had lost while her own perseverance had led to her victory, and she would know that she and her beloved daughter would soon be restored to their rightful places. That joy would have renewed her, like a woman reborn.

The King was free of Anne's poison and, if her mother had still lived, Mary believed that he would have restored her to her rightful place as his Queen, something that she knew Jane would have liked to see, never begrudging Queen Katherine her place, even if her family had hoped to see her sit in it. She wanted to believe that he would have done this but she couldn't convince herself.

Henry squeezed her hand lightly, prompting her to look up at him before he asked his next question. "Do you regret taking the Oath, Mary?" He asked her quietly.

"No, Your Majesty... Father." Mary answered without hesitation, afraid that if she paused for even an instant before reassuring him, she could find herself out of favour, or worse. "I am overjoyed to be restored to your gracious favour... and I hope that you know that I am your obedient daughter and subject." She added hastily, in case her father got the impression that the only reason why she did not regret taking the Oath was the substantial benefits she had reaped by doing so.

Henry nodded, smiling reassuringly, in case Mary believed that he might be angry with her. He certainly did not want to frighten his daughter, or to make her believe that the position she currently enjoyed in his court and in his heart was in jeopardy if she gave him the wrong answer but this issue was too important for him to be able to set it aside, not until he knew the full truth of Mary's feelings towards Anne. Was there any hope that, if he saved Anne's life and kept her as his Queen, Mary would be able to accept her, so he would not need to order her death?

"What if the late Queen was still alive?" He posed the question as casually as he possibly could. "I understand that you would not want to take the Oath if your mother lived, and there was little time after her death before the late Queen was arrested, but do you think that you would have taken the Oath and accepted her as my rightful wife and Queen – if it was discovered that she was innocent of the charges laid against her." He added, before Mary could justify her refusal by saying that Anne was unworthy of being Queen, and use that to evade answering his question.

Despite being conscious of the need to answer promptly, in case her father believed that her answers were calculated and therefore insincere, Mary was tongue-tied at first.

She had always insisted that she would never take the Oath, never allow Anne to triumph over her and her mother, as she would surely have done if she could say that Queen Katherine's daughter accepted her, and she had been relieved when Anne's fall from grace, a just punishment for the sins she had committed against Mary and her sainted mother, had ensured that she would not need to bend the knee to that woman in order to buy her way back into her father's good graces. Part of her was sure that she would have gone to the scaffold rather than bow to Anne as her Queen but she also knew that it was easy to say that now, when she would never be called upon to test that conviction, but that it might have been a different matter if Anne still lived.

Would she have had the courage to maintain that, even if her mother was dead, Anne Boleyn could not be Queen unless the King married her a second time – essentially acknowledging that their first union was invalid as he was not then free to take a wife, exposing little Elizabeth as a bastard and confirming Mary's rights as the true Princess – or would she have yielded?

She didn't know, just as she didn't know what her father wanted her to tell him now.

"If the late Queen was innocent," it hurt to refer to Anne as Queen, hurt to think that her father might still remember her as such, despite the fact that he had annulled their farce of a marriage when Anne was convicted of adultery, especially when he was always careful to refer to her mother as the Princess Dowager of Wales, never allowing himself to call her his Queen, but she couldn't refuse to use the title her father used. "Then, when I knew that your marriage to my mother was no true marriage, I would have accepted her as your true wife, and as my Queen." She kept her eyes lowered at first, not wanting her father to see the pain in them, but when she chanced a glance at his face, she could see that he was pleased to hear her say it. For whatever reason, he wanted to believe that she would have come to accept Anne, if that woman had lived.

"You are certain of this, Mary?" Henry pressed gently, wondering if she was speaking from the heart or if she was saying this to please him. "Your mother might not have liked it."

"My mother would have understood." Mary said, speaking as steadily as she could, and believing that she was telling the truth. Her mother loved her and wanted her to be happy and, more importantly, safe. She knew that. If she had to pretend that Anne Boleyn was Queen in order to secure her safety, her mother would not have condemned her for the pretence, not if she took steps to repudiate the Oath privately, and secure papal absolution for her lie. If her father chose to take her words another way, to believe that her mother would have thought that, by taking the Oath, she was admitting the truth at last, she would not disillusion him.

To her surprise, her father folded her into his embrace, kissing her on the cheek and thanking her warmly, holding her in his arms for several minutes before he released her.

When Henry rode away from Hundson later that afternoon, after dining in his daughter's company, he rode with a lighter heart. Mary's words had given him a measure of confidence that all was not lost, even if he decided that he should accept the Executioner's offer and bring Anne back to life, reassuring him that such a decision need not cost him his eldest daughter.

If Mary would be willing to take the Oath while Anne was Queen, then he would still be able to reconcile with her, even if Jane was not part of his life and Anne was.

* * *

_Two days to go..._

After the clarity that his visit to Mary had brought him, Henry knew where he needed to go next.

Hatfield House was within half a day's ride from London, something Henry had stipulated when he instructed Cromwell to select a suitable royal dwelling for his baby daughter, knowing that both he and Anne would want to see the child frequently, but it was still far enough away to ensure that he needed to leave early, if he wanted to be able to spend time with Elizabeth before returning.

Jane was pleased when he told him that he intended to pay a visit to Elizabeth – though it did not escape his notice that she did not greet the news of his intentions with the same degree of pleasure she had exhibited when he told her of his visit to Mary at Hundson, something that he found troubling, though he did not question her about it, not wanting to risk a quarrel with Jane in her condition. She could not accompany him, not when the strain of the journey might harm the child she carried, but she had asked Henry to convey her best wishes to her little stepdaughter.

When he arrived at Elizabeth's household, he waved aside the greetings of Sir John Shelton, Elizabeth's steward, but he spent some time speaking to Lady Bryan before he saw Elizabeth alone, wanting an update on his daughter's progress and knowing that, of all the members of the child's household, her governess was best suited to tell him what he needed to know.

"The Lady Elizabeth is the sweetest child, Your Majesty, and so bright and clever." Lady Bryan enthused once he asked her about Elizabeth, her pride in her charge plain. It pleased him to see that, despite Elizabeth's demotion, Lady Bryan still cared for her. He could imagine that it must have been an unpleasant shock for the lady who had taken such pride in her post as the governess of Princess Elizabeth, heiress presumptive to the throne, to learn that her small charge had been declared illegitimate and was now nothing more than the Lady Elizabeth, the King's second natural daughter, but it appeared that she had recovered from that shock and that it did not affect her affection for the little girl in her charge. "She is already quick at her studies, the cleverest child I have ever seen. She knows her letters now, and her numbers and is making excellent progress with reading and writing. She is beginning to learn Latin – and she is clever with her needle too, for her years." She added, in case he thought that the feminine accomplishments were neglected.

"And her music?" Henry asked, before he could stop himself.

Like him, Anne had loved music and he was sure that their daughter must share that love, however much it pained him to think of Elizabeth as her mother's daughter.

Elizabeth was young now and very innocent, too innocent for it to occur to her that the father she loved might not be the great, virtuous man that she was now taught to think of him as. A time would come when she would ask questions about her mother, about why Anne had died and about why she had been demoted from Princess to bastard. Even if the members of her household refused to answer those questions, she was too much like Anne, too clever and too obstinate, to be satisfied with a mute response and she would continue to seek answers to her questions.

If he refused to save Anne's life, would a time come when his little daughter looked at him with hatred in her heart, condemning him for her mother's murder? The thought was a chilling one.

"With Your Majesty's permission, tutors were engaged to instruct the Lady Elizabeth in the arts of music and dance, and her progress has astounded them." Lady Bryan reported proudly, clearly satisfied that nobody could allege that she had been remiss in ensuring that Elizabeth was as well educated as any princess... as any King's daughter... should be at her age. "I know that the Lady Elizabeth hopes to play for you one day, and for the Queen too, when she is more proficient."

"I look forward to hearing her." Henry smiled but his expression quickly became sombre and he lowered his voice before he asked his next question. "Does she ever ask about the late Queen?"

Much as he would like to believe that his little daughter was too young to remember the mother she had lost, much as he would like to think that Jane would be the only mother Elizabeth could remember, he knew that this would not be the case. Elizabeth was so clever that she would remember more of her earliest years than most children did and Anne had always been a loving and devoted mother to their child, visiting Elizabeth whenever she could manage to get away from the palace, delighting in spending time with her child and showering her with love.

He could not convince himself that Elizabeth had forgotten Anne, or that she ever would.

The question clearly made Lady Bryan uncomfortable. She hesitated for several long moments before answering and when she finally spoke, she spoke slowly, choosing her words with great care in order to strike a balance between giving him a truthful answer and avoiding causing him offence. "When the late Queen was executed, I thought it best to tell the Lady Elizabeth, with Your Majesty's pardon." She said, hoping that the King would not think this presumption on her part. No orders had been sent about what she was to say to the child, but she had had to say something. "Lady Elizabeth was asking for her mother, and wished to see her, so I thought I should explain. I also thought it best to tell her when Your Majesty married Queen Jane." She added.

"You were right to tell her, Lady Bryan." Henry said, feeling a renewed sense of guilt at the thought of how confused his little girl must have been. Once he banished Anne from his sight, refusing to see her or even to read the letter she sent him after her arrest, the last thing he had wanted was to have anything to do with Anne's child. How long had Elizabeth spent waiting for her mother before Lady Bryan finally broke the news to her that Anne would never come to see her again? He was afraid to ask the question. "Does she speak of her mother now?"

"She prays for her soul." Lady Bryan admitted. "But she has not spoken of her since I told her of her execution. She understands that her mother committed treason, and had to die."

Although he was aware that he should be glad that Elizabeth had not been told that her mother was murdered in order to pave the way for her successor – not that he expected any member of her household to dare to say such a thing in the child's hearing, even if such rumours were flying around the country when Anne was first arrested – he felt angry to think of Elizabeth being told that Anne deserved to die, and not just because he now knew her to have been innocent. He did not want to think that Elizabeth was taught to be ashamed of being Anne's daughter, or led to believe that this was the reason why he had not wanted to see her after Anne's death.

"I trust that you explained to my daughter that she was not to blame for her mother's actions."

Lady Bryan flinched slightly at the severity of his tone but she recovered herself. "Of course, Your Majesty." She assured him, hoping that this was true. She couldn't remember if she had reassured Elizabeth, or if she was still too indignant over her own loss of status to think of the little girl and the worries that might have troubled her over her mother's execution.

God knew that there were enough rumours about Queen Anne being executed because she had borne a daughter, not a son, and if Elizabeth had heard those... she shuddered at the thought.

"I see." Henry wasn't certain if he believed her but he didn't press the matter. "I would like to speak to my daughter." He said.

Lady Bryan was quicker than Mary's steward, and he had no chance to instruct her to let him know where Elizabeth was so that he might go for her before she dispatched a servant to bring the little girl downstairs. When Elizabeth appeared, she was being led by the hand by a maid of honour, while a second followed, hastily straightening the hem of her long gown, and Henry was struck by how small his daughter's entourage now was. At one time, at least half a dozen maids of honour would have accompanied Elizabeth, while grooms preceded her and her chamberlain called out that all present should make way for Princess Elizabeth, but she had far fewer servants now.

Once Elizabeth was ushered into his presence, she curtsied deeply to him, with a grace surprising in a child of not yet four years. "I am honoured by Your Majesty's visit." The formal words sounded strange spoken in such a childish voice, and the sight of the composed little figure – every inch a princess, even if she was now denied that title – tore at Henry's heart.

Where was the little girl who once dashed into his arms, happily unconscious of rank?

He returned her curtsey with a deep bow, doffing his hat respectfully before kneeling down and holding out his arms to her, an inviting smile on his face. "My Elizabeth." He greeted her in as gentle and as friendly a manner as he could, wanting her to know that he was still her father and that he still loved her. When she ran into his outstretched arms, returning his embrace with a kiss, he felt himself exhale in relief at the knowledge that she still loved him, as she had before.

"Papa." The word from her lips was perhaps the sweetest he could ever hear, and he rejoiced, knowing that he had not lost his little girl, not entirely.

He kept hold of Elizabeth as he rose to his feet, balancing his daughter carefully in one arm and tickling her under the chin with his free hand. "How is my little... Elizabeth?" He caught himself before he could call her his princess, knowing that if he addressed her as such, it would only confuse her and she must have been confused enough when she was first told that she was no longer a princess but simply Lady Elizabeth. "Are you well? Are you happy?" Elizabeth did not look at Lady Bryan before she nodded but, even so, Henry could sense the governess' watchful gaze and knew that she would be watching them, anxious to know that the visit was going well and that her charge's manners could not be faulted, for fear that she would be blamed if Elizabeth said or did anything amiss. If he wanted to be able to speak freely with Elizabeth, they would need to be alone. "Why don't we go out into the garden, sweetheart – alone?"

With his wishes made so plain, Lady Bryan did not dare to follow them, or to send one of Elizabeth's maids to accompany them, ostensibly to be there in case her service was required but really so that Lady Bryan could know what passed between the King and her charge, in case Elizabeth inadvertently offended her father. She had no choice but to stay behind.

Once they were out in the garden, Henry set Elizabeth on her feet, allowing her to lead him to the patch of garden that she proudly termed hers, where, while she did little actual gardening, something that both her rank as the King's daughter and the fine gowns she wore forbade, she chose the flowers to be planted and the gardener obeyed no instructions save hers.

"I wanted to plant proper Tudor roses but Jones couldn't find the right plants." Elizabeth complained with an adorable pout of discontent as she gestured to the roses that were the cause of her grievance. While she had been able to have bushes of red roses and bushes of white roses planted, Jones had told her that there was no plant for a rose that was white on the inside with red petals on the outside, like the Tudor rose. Lady Bryan said it was a made-up rose.

Henry smiled at that, remembering how, shortly after his coronation, he had tried to find gardeners who could breed a perfect replica of the Tudor rose, thinking that it would make a fine addition to the gardens of Whitehall Palace but had never been able to get what he wanted. "The roses you have now are very pretty, sweetheart." He offered instead, wanting to cheer her up.

Elizabeth smiled at this, pointing out several more flowers and explaining her plans for her garden in great detail, with Henry listening patiently, amused and touched by her fervent interest and more certain than ever that his daughter was a marvel. He was sure that most children her age would lose interest in gardening as quickly as they took it up but Elizabeth persisted, and her attention to colour and detail would not shame any of the gardeners in his employ.

When Elizabeth's smile disappeared, Henry was concerned. "What is it, sweetheart?"

Elizabeth hesitated before answering. "Will you be cross if I ask you a question?"

His daughter shouldn't have had to ask him that question, and Henry felt guilty to think that Elizabeth, still more than three months away from her fourth birthday, felt that she needed to. He had only himself to blame for her reluctance so he smiled to reassure her, squeezing her hand gently to let her know that it was alright for her to speak her mind. "Of course not." He promised.

"Why am I not a princess anymore?" Elizabeth asked, looking up at her father with wide, trusting eyes, believing that he would tell her the truth. "Why am I just Lady Elizabeth now? Lady Bryan said that you wanted me to have a new title but she wouldn't say why. Nobody will say why. I liked being a princess." She added plaintively, as though she thought that he might not know this, might think that she preferred being a Lady. "Was it because of Mama?"

He should have denied that, as the official version of events, the one circulated to the people after Anne's execution, set out that the annulment of their marriage was a separate issue to the question of her guilt. His marriage to Anne was annulled because of his relationship with her sister – although he had forbidden any public announcement of the grounds, to spare himself embarrassment – not because of her adultery. He should have told Elizabeth that her mother's death was not the reason for her bastard status but he knew that this was a lie.

He wanted to make a clean sweep and start fresh with Jane, knowing that the children of their marriage would be his heirs, so Elizabeth was declared a bastard.

"Yes, sweetheart." He said quietly.

"Why?" Elizabeth asked, tears starting to shine in her eyes as she thought of her mother, though she kept them in check. "Lady Bryan said that Mama's head had to be cut off with a sword because she did wicked things but _I_ didn't do anything wicked. Why can't I be a princess anymore? It was nicer when I was a princess, and I got to see you more... and Mama was there." Lady Bryan had told her that she should take care not to speak of her Mama in front of her Papa, in case she made him angry, but Elizabeth couldn't help it. "I miss my Mama. I want to see her again."

Henry had to swallow a lump in his throat before he could speak, and he could feel tears pricking at the back of his eyelids. "You have your new mother, Queen Jane." He offered lamely, knowing that this was small consolation for Elizabeth's loss. Nobody would ever be able to replace Anne in her life, and he had taken Anne from her. "She is kind to you, isn't she?"

"Not like Mama." Elizabeth maintained. "Mama _loved_ me. Queen Jane just _likes_ me, a little. She likes Mary much better than me. It was better when Mama was your Queen."

Henry bent down to lift Elizabeth into his arms, rubbing her back while he looked around for a place where they could sit down to talk. There was no bench nearby but there was a tall oak tree and he walked over to it, spreading his cloak and sitting down with Elizabeth in his lap, so that they could sit in the shade. Once they were settled, he composed himself before speaking.

"What if you could be a princess again?" He offered, thinking that, even if the Executioner would not accept a compromise, he might be able to find a middle ground for himself, a solution that he could live with, to do something for Anne but without having to bring her back to life.

Anne had loved Elizabeth so much that her first concern would be for their child, not for herself. He had seen the evidence of this for himself, when he saw the stricken expression on her face when Cranmer broke the news to her that Elizabeth was to be declared a bastard. She didn't seem to have given a thought to the fact that, with their marriage annulled, she could no longer claim the title of Queen, the title she had fought for, she was worried about the uncertain future that Elizabeth would face now that she was demoted to the status of a bastard. Even though the hour of her death was drawing near, she was concerned with Elizabeth's welfare, not her own. If he restored their daughter to the place she had enjoyed before Anne's fall, if he saw to it that Elizabeth would enjoy the same honours and comforts she had before, Anne would be happy, even if he decided against turning back time to save her life.

Elizabeth mattered most to her.

It would not be easy to reverse the annulment of his marriage to Anne, especially as such a move would incense the Emperor, who would not be pleased to see Anne's daughter restored while Katherine's daughter remained a bastard, but it could be done, if he wished for it to be done. He would have no trouble with Cranmer, who would be happy to claim that he had erred when he told him that his marriage to Anne was invalid, and that there was never a need to annul their marriage in the first place, especially as Cranmer was Elizabeth's godfather and would be pleased to see the child restored as a Princess, for her sake and for her mother's, and Parliament would agree to his wishes, once he made them known.

Elizabeth could be a princess again within the month, allowing him to make amends with Anne but without having to sacrifice his marriage to Jane, or the promise of a prince from her.

When Elizabeth looked up at him, her expression was so grave that Henry was half convinced that she knew what he was thinking, knew what he had been offered and that he had a mind to turn down the offer, allowing her mother to remain dead for the sake of his marriage to Jane. Her voice was soft when she spoke but her words were chilling and unwelcome to his ears.

"I'd rather be Lady Elizabeth and have my Mama back than be a princess with no Mama."

* * *

_One day to go..._

When one of Jane's ladies came to him with a message that the Queen needed to see him, Henry was afraid that he would reach Jane's bedchamber to find her bleeding, losing their child, a stark indication that, because their marriage was made possible by Anne's murder, it would never be blessed with living issue. However, when he arrived in Jane's chamber, he was relieved to see that there were no midwives present and no physicians, who would surely have been summoned if there was a chance that there was something wrong with the Prince, but he was still worried.

"What is it?" He asked, of nobody in particular, but Jane's ladies only curtsied and withdrew, leaving him alone with their mistress. Jane was sitting up in bed, with no sign of blood on her gown or on the sheets, but Henry still felt worried. "Sweetheart, what is it?"

"Everything is alright." Jane assured him in her gentle voice, reaching out to take his hand in hers and press it against the swell of her belly, now becoming visible under her gown. "Come." Her smile was radiant as she looked up at him, her eyes alight with joy. "The baby quickened. I can feel him moving."

They both knew, without saying it, how positive a sign this was. Although Jane had missed her courses since February, and although she had been craving certain foods, quails' eggs above anything else, they could not be fully confident that she was carrying a healthy, living child until the moment when she first felt the child move within her, the moment that had now arrived. The child she carried was moving, he was alive, and he would surely be healthy. One look at Jane's face was enough to confirm that she was well and strong, glowing with vitality, rather than being pale and drawn as some women were when they were pregnant, so Henry was certain that he did not need to worry that the strain of pregnancy would prove to be too much for her.

He couldn't feel the baby move, not yet. It would be at least a couple of months more before the child's movements were strong enough to allow somebody other than his mother to feel it when he turned or kicked. However, Henry was sure that the baby was strong, and he knew in his heart that, this time, the boy that the astrologers had promised him would be born.

In October, all going well, England would have its Prince at last.

He bent down so that his head was level with Jane's belly, close enough to kiss it, or to whisper to it, words he hoped that his son would hear. "Edward," he and Jane had not discussed the name they intended to give the child – as the child's father, it was for him to decree what he should be called – but Henry spoke the name instinctively, knowing that it was the only name he could give his son. He could not call him Henry, however much he might like to think of England being ruled by Henry IX when he was gone. His son by Katherine was christened Henry, and died within the month. Little Henry Fitzroy had died before he was old enough to ride his first pony. Anne had insisted that they should call their son Henry, and she had miscarried. This child needed no ill omens. "My son." He whispered, his voice filled with wonder. "Be strong."

As he leaned forward to kiss Jane's belly, wondering if the child she carried would be able to feel his kiss too, he imagined what it would be like to have a son he could love and cherish, a son who would not be snatched away from him during his infancy or his toddler years, leaving him to grieve, a son he could watch grow up, and guide to manhood, teaching him all that he needed to know to be the King he wanted to leave England with when he was dead. He was not as young as he once was, and he knew that his health was not good, so his son might be a youth when he succeeded to the throne, perhaps no older than Henry was when he succeeded his father.

He had no time to lose when it came to raising and educating England's heir.

The future of his country, of the Tudor dynasty with whose continuance his father had charged him, was at stake and only the boy in Jane's belly would be able to secure them.

There was only one choice that he could make.

* * *

_Time..._

Although he knew in his heart that he could not avoid making this decision, Henry had done his best to forestall it. He was sure that, if he could stay awake, he could keep the Executioner at bay... and perhaps if the nineteenth of May passed without him falling asleep, he would miss the window of time during which he would be called upon to make a choice without committing to a decision, and he would never be faced with such a choice a second time.

He had commanded Dr Linacre to bring him the strongest stimulant he possessed, ignoring the physicians timid protestations that it might not be wise to take something like that unless he truly had need of it, and he had downed a double dose for good measure. He refused to allow his grooms to help him get ready for bed and stayed fully dressed, sitting in a chair. He played his lute to keep himself awake, determinedly focusing his mind on the task at hand, wanting to write a song for Jane, a song that could be played to the court when their son was born.

It would be a fitting tribute to his love for her.

He had written songs for Anne before, one song in particular that he was especially proud of, and if Anne could have songs from him, Jane deserved one too, the most beautiful he could compose.

He wanted to write a song praising Jane as England's saviour, as the lady who had brought such joy into his life and from whom England would have a Prince of Wales, a song detailing her many virtues, one that would be played throughout their lives and beyond, one that would show the world how much he loved her... but despite his best efforts to concentrate on Jane, despite his determination to forget about Anne and to think only of his wife, his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own, and they wished to play another song, a song he did not want to hear. He had banned it from court and refused to play it since Anne died but he was still note perfect, as though he had played it every day of his life since the day he first composed it.

_Alas, my love, you do me wrong  
To cast me off discourteously,  
For I have loved you so long,  
Delighting in your company._

When he wrote that song, after Anne left court to return to Hever Castle, her patience taxed past breaking point by the constant delays in the trial, despairing of him ever being free and feeling convinced that he would cast her off and return to Katherine, he sang of her having spurned him but, in the end, it was he who had cast her off, and in a manner that was violent rather than merely discourteous. He had loved her for so long, and taken such delight in her company, that it was difficult for him to believe that his feelings had changed so drastically, and in so little time.

Anne had gone from being the lady who held his heart in his hands, the only lady for whom he felt any passion, to a wife that he wished to be rid of within a few short years of their marriage.

Was she right when she walked away from him, seeking to return to Hever Castle? Should she have given up on the idea of them ever being together? Had he been wrong to plead with her father to persuade her to come back to court, a plea that was accompanied by a confident prediction that he would soon be free, when it would be years longer before he could marry Anne? Should he have let Anne go, helping her to contract an advantageous marriage – if a husband could be found who was willing to take her as his wife when all of Christendom knew that she was the object of Henry's affections, a husband who would not make her suffer for the infamous reputation with which Katherine's supporters had blackened her name – and have sons?

The idea of Anne bearing another man a son was enough to make Henry's gorge rise in his throat. He had wanted her to have sons, but only his sons. Not another man's.

He knew that he would not have been able to bear the thought of her in another man's bed; even when he no longer loved her, the pain of thinking of her bedding another man was excruciating, so much so that he wanted to destroy her for it. He could not begin to imagine how much it would have hurt to see her belong to another man when his love for her was still at its height.

_Greensleeves was all my joy  
Greensleeves was my delight,  
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,  
And who but my Lady Greensleeves._

Anne had once been the joy of his life, the lady in whose company he delighted. His heart was hers, and he was sure that it was safe in her keeping. He was happy then, with his lady, and never imagined that a time would come when he would need or want any lady other than Anne. Whatever sacrifices he had to make in order to keep her with him for the rest of their lives, he had never doubted that it was worth it, that she was worth it, no matter what price he had to pay.

Katherine's happiness, even Mary's, both could be sacrificed in order that he might have Anne.

Now he was happy again, with another lady, and he was once more being called upon to make a sacrifice in order to have Anne with him but this time, the price was too high for him to pay.

If Anne loved him, as she claimed, wouldn't she want him to be happy, even if that meant being with another woman, even if that meant letting her die? She was English, and had grown up in the peace that the Tudor dynasty had brought to England, so that the civil wars that once tore the country apart were only stories to her. Surely she would be able to appreciate just how vital it was for him to be able to father a Prince of Wales who would one day be a King to keep the country safe. Much as Anne might love Elizabeth, she must surely see that a Prince would be better fitted to keep England safe than any Princess, even one as clever and gifted as their daughter.

He would restore Elizabeth as a Princess, and see to it that he made a royal marriage for her, so that she might be Queen of another realm, while Jane's son would rule England. Surely that would satisfy Anne, and even if Elizabeth had said that she would rather have her mother back than regain her title, she would still be glad to have the right to call herself Princess Elizabeth once more, and to know that she was his jewel of England, his cherished princess again.

Surely that would be enough for them, all that Anne could expect him to do, under the circumstances, and surely if she loved him, she would understand the choice he had made. She was intelligent enough to understand the reasons for his choice, and to know that he was not leaving her dead out of hatred but because it was what he needed for his happiness.

"Surely if you ever loved her, you would be willing to give up the woman, Jane Seymour, if that was what it took to bring her back to life." The Executioner's cold voice intruded his thoughts and Henry shivered with cold and apprehension. "Even if you do not want her back for your sake, does she not have a right to live? Does your daughter not have a right to have her mother back?"

"It's not that simple!" Henry protested, incensed. It was so easy for the Executioner to stand in judgement, exuding silent condemnation for his choice but had he ever been faced with a choice of bringing back somebody he had allowed to die, wrongly, but at such a high cost? Had he ever been called upon to give up a wife he loved and the promise of a healthy son from her, all for the sake of a woman who had failed to give him a son and failed to keep him happy?

"It seems very simple to me." The Executioner told him. "You have a choice between leaving her dead and bringing her back to life. That is all that matters. Have you made your choice?"

"Yes." Henry's voice was trembling, and of a higher pitch than usual, and his cheeks burned slightly as he spoke, anticipating the Executioner's reaction. "I am going to leave things as they are – I know that she was innocent, and if I had known it then, I wouldn't have let her die, I would have found another way to be free." He said quickly, half-afraid that the Executioner would drag him back through more scenes of the past if he did not make it plain to him that he knew Anne to be innocent and had factored this into his decision. "If there was a way that I could bring her back and still marry Jane and have our son, I would take it but you won't let me do that so I have to leave her dead. The price for bringing her back is just too high to pay."

The Executioner's eyes blazed through the slits of his mask, burning with fury. "As you wish!" He ground out the words, reaching out to snatch Henry's shoulder in a vice-like grip. "You have made your choice. Pray that you can live with the consequences."

Henry shut his eyes instinctively as he felt the world melt away, afraid of what he would see when he opened them but, as with Anne's execution, he was not allowed to keep them closed. The Executioner was not prepared to allow him to avoid even a second of what was to come.

They were back on the Tower Green, standing in the crowd awaiting Anne's execution. Anne was standing on the scaffold, calm and beautiful as she made her speech and Henry's heart hurt at the sight of her, at the knowledge that the woman he loved was about to die, with his consent, and for the second time, though this time he knew well that she was innocent, and was still willing to stand there and watch her murdered, for his sake, rather than make the sacrifices that were necessary to allow her to live.

"It's not too late." The Executioner said, his voice gentler this time. "You can change your mind."

"No, I can't." Henry said. He could not look at the Executioner, and he couldn't bear to look at Anne so he kept his gaze fixed on the hat of the man standing directly in front of him, a man he could not recognize. He did his best to tune out Anne's speech, not wanting to hear her praise him or call upon the people to pray for him. This was already difficult enough for him and he wished that the Executioner would stop dangling the prospect of saving Anne in front of him, for fear that he might weaken in his resolve. He couldn't afford to soften, not now, not when he had so much at stake. If he weakened, he would lose Jane and their son and he couldn't lose them, not even for Anne's sake. Anne was innocent but she had to die, for him and for England.

"If that is what you want." The Executioner said gravely, unsheathing his sword and thrusting it into Henry's hand.

The next thing Henry knew, he was standing next to Anne on the scaffold. He held out his hand in front of him and was dismayed and horrified to see that, instead of the clean hand with neatly trimmed nails and only a few calluses from horse-riding and sport, it was dark with ingrained dirt, with broken nails and many calluses, a legacy of a lifetime of work. Instead of his fine doublet and hose, he was wearing plain homespun, somewhat grubby from travelling and smelling rather strong. How long had these clothes been worn since they were last washed?

When he looked out at the crowd, he could see the Executioner watching him and he saw an expression of grim satisfaction in his eyes, which told him exactly what was happening. He had chosen to allow Anne's execution to proceed and the Executioner had brought him back so that it could take place, but with a crucial difference; this time, he would play the part of the executioner.

"Why?" He wasn't sure if he spoke the word aloud or if he merely thought it.

Anne didn't react to the word, nor did anybody else, but maybe they couldn't hear anything that the executioner had not said the first time.

 _" **You** are the one who has decided to let her die."_ He heard the Executioner's cold voice in his head, the words hard and merciless. _"Why do you expect that **I** should wield the sword?"_

 _"It's your job!"_ Henry silently projected the thought to his guide, scowling at him.

 _"And this is your choice, and therefore your responsibility."_ The Executioner countered smoothly. _"Make sure that it is quick."_ He admonished sternly. "Don't let her suffer."

The sword was no longer in Henry's hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a glint of metal, and knew that the sword was buried beneath the straw, the executioner's method of ensuring that Anne would not be able to see the sword beforehand, and be frightened by it. When the time came, when Anne was looking away, he would take the sword and behead her in one smooth stroke, before she could see the blow coming... if he could ensure that he could behead her in one stroke. What would he do if he failed to remove her head in one clean blow?

The thought that he might botch the job, leaving Anne bleeding and in agony before he could dispatch her was an unbearable one. He was resolved to allow her execution to proceed but he did not want to butcher her. Even if the Executioner wanted to make a point to _him_ by making him do this, how could he put _Anne_ at risk like this, exposing her to the possibility of a truly brutal end?

Anne had finished her speech and was standing by his side. Henry dropped to his knees in front of her. "Madame, forgive me for what I must do." The words were the executioner's but the sentiment was his. He had to let her die and he prayed that she would be able to forgive him.

"Gladly." Her voice was compassionate but there was no recognition in her eyes. The forgiveness was for the executioner, who was doing his job, not for the husband who sent her to her death. "And here is your purse." The leather purse she placed in his hand was a heavy one, containing the executioner's already hefty fee, with an additional gratuity to ensure a quick death.

Henry accepted the purse and rose, motioning for Anne to kneel in front of him.

Before kneeling, she spoke again. "Thus I take my leave of the world, and of you. And I heartily desire you all to pray for me." Once kneeling, she prayed, a steady tumble of words as she beseeched Jesus to have pity on her soul, a prayer that Henry echoed in his heart. Whatever sins Anne might have committed in life, they were trivial compared to the ones she was accused of and, with her death, she must surely atone for any wrongs she had committed in life. Once her soul left her body, it would fly straight to Heaven and into God's keeping.

He clung to that thought as a comfort.

Studying her neck, he could understand why the French preferred that a condemned prisoner should kneel upright instead of lying over a block. Anne's neck, long, narrow and graceful, was completely exposed, with the neckline of her gown cut low and her hair tucked under a coif so that it would not impede the sword blow. She was impeccable, save for one tiny detail.

When he saw that a strand of hair had slipped out of her coif, Henry instinctively reached out to tuck it back into place, knowing that Anne would want to appear her best. She flinched slightly, almost imperceptibly at his unexpected touch, letting out a soft whimper and he cursed himself for frightening her. When she realized what he had done, she looked up at his, blue eyes filled with fear, and thanked him quietly before resuming her prayers. When she was looking at him, her head was at the wrong angle, and she kept glancing back. He needed her to look away.

He spoke the words automatically, as though the executioner's body knew what he had to do and was guiding him. "Boy! Fetch my sword!" The boy he addressed was astonished to be spoken to, plainly bewildered to be singled out and having no idea where the sword was but that didn't matter. All that mattered was that his words were enough to get Anne to look in the boy's direction, moving her head enough so that her neck was at a perfect angle for him.

The world around Henry seemed to slow down, allowing him to snatch up the sword while Anne's head was turning towards the boy, and to raise it, ready to strike. He had a window of opportunity only seconds long, before Anne realized what was happening and turned back to look at him. If he wanted her death to be quick, he had to strike now... but he couldn't.

However much Anne might have tried to make peace with the idea of dying, however serene she might be now, she did not want to die and he couldn't pretend that she did. She was young, and she should have had so many years of life ahead of her, years that she could spend watching their daughter grow from child to woman, giving Elizabeth the guidance she needed during her formative years, before she went on to marry and have children of her own one day.

She had done nothing wrong and she didn't deserve to die.

It might be better for him if she died but could he deprive her of her chance to lead a long, healthy and happy life so that he could marry Jane and have their son?

He wanted to believe that he could but he couldn't convince himself of it.

He had hesitated too long.

Anne had seen the bewildered expression on the boy's face and knew that he did not have the sword. She looked back at him, her eyes widening in terror when she saw the sword in his hand. A single tear trickled down her cheek and Henry reached out to wipe it away, imagining how soft her skin must feel through the thick leather of his gloves.

There was no sound from Anne but her lips moved to frame the word "Please".

The sword was too heavy for him to continue to hold it.

Henry allowed it to fall from his hand, listening to it strike the floor of the scaffold with a clang.

"I can't do it." He said, his voice hoarse. "I can't kill her."


	4. Consequences

"You are certain that this is what you want?" The Executioner's tone sounded bland but Henry was sure that he could hear a hint of approval in the words, letting him know that his guide was far from displeased to see that Henry had not been able to kill Anne. This was what the Executioner had wanted, from the moment he first came to him. "You wish for her to live?"

"Yes."

It was not entirely true.

If not for the fact that the Executioner was determined that, if Anne was to die, Henry should be the one to strike the deathblow, he would have made a different choice.

He wanted to preserve his marriage to Jane, wanted to have their son, wanted a Prince of Wales he could raise and teach to be the kind of King that England would need when he was gone, a King who could continue the Tudor dynasty and preserve his father's legacy. He had made his decision before, deciding that it would be better for him and for his country if Anne was sacrificed so that England could have a Prince, but he had not been able to steel himself to be the one to strike Anne's head from her body, could not be the man by whose hand her blood was spilled.

Did that make him a coward, a man who was willing to allow an innocent woman to die when he believed that another man would snuff out her life, but not willing to do the deed himself?

For better or worse, his decision was made now.

He could not swing the sword so he could not be free of Anne. She would be his wife from now until the end of their days, and the only heirs he would have would be heirs born from her.

If she never had a son, he would never have one… at least not a legitimate son.

The Executioner had not demanded fidelity of him, but what good would a bastard be to him?

What good would a bastard be to England?

He had already had to fight to make Elizabeth his heiress instead of the Lady Mary, resorting to such drastic measures to defend her rights that he could not hope to replace her with a bastard.

He would have to either send Jane away from his court, sending her back to Wolf Hall and her family and hope that her reputation had not suffered so much damage thanks to his attentions to her that no man was prepared to accept her as his wife, or else he would have to face her with the revelation that, despite their hopes, he would never be able to have her with honour, as he had wanted to, so badly, and that she could only remain part of his life as his mistress. He would not be able to offer her marriage, showing the world how highly he esteemed her, and how much he loved her. The best he would be able to give her now was a place in his life as his mistress, but how could he insult her by asking her to be his illicitly when he couldn't give her a lawful union?

He would not even be able to keep her at court, not when he knew that Anne would remain Queen. How could he ask Jane to continue to serve Anne, or Anne to continue to tolerate Jane's presence in her household, when they would both know that, if he had been allowed to do as he wished, he would have sent Anne away and raised Jane to the throne in her place?

Anne would be angry if he obliged her to retain Jane as one of her ladies, and she would undoubtedly be suspicious if he indicated that he required this of her, convinced that Jane was his mistress, and that this was the reason why he insisted that she should continue to be part of her household. Even if she knew that her position as his wife was safe, she would still resent Jane's presence, just as she would resent any show of favour to the Seymour family, jealously watching to see how many honours Jane won her kinsmen by pleasing him, but that did not trouble him near as much as his worry about how Jane would feel if she remained at court in that capacity, when she had hoped for so much more, and when so many of the courtiers knew of her hopes.

It would only hurt and humiliate Jane to have to wait on a triumphant Anne, spending her days in the company of Anne's ladies, many of whom were loyal to their mistress and who would heap scorn on Jane's head now that they knew that they would never have to call her their Queen and never have to worry that she would be able to exact retribution for the coldness, doing everything they could to make her so unhappy that she resigned her place in Anne's household voluntarily, ensuring that Anne would not have to tolerate her company a moment longer than necessary.

He didn't want to see her suffer, not when she had only ever sought to make him happy.

Since she could not be his wife, the only way that she could be his would be as his mistress, with their son born a bastard, a child to whom he could never leave his throne, even if he was the finest boy ever born, a healthy, intelligent boy that any King could be proud to point to as the heir to his throne. The circumstances of his birth would act as a permanent barrier between the boy and the Crown. Any son he and Jane had would be nothing but a royal bastard, and would always be second in rank to the children Anne bore, even if Anne only had a daughter.

He could protect the child while he lived, showing him that he still cared for him, even if he was illegitimate, and that he cared for his mother, just as he could ensure that he was granted estates to support himself when he was an adult, but once he was gone, Anne's family would not wish to receive the boy at court, preferring to leave him to languish in the countryside.

His peace with his eldest daughter, and the relationship they had rebuilt together, was lost.

He was certain that Mary would see sense in time. She had admitted that, even if Anne remained Queen, she would have taken the Oath, eventually. But how long would it take before Mary was able to recognize that, however much she might wish it, however much she prayed for her father to set his wife aside, Anne would not be replaced with a Queen she could more easily accept?

Chapuys had surely told Mary as soon as the first cracks appeared in his relationship with Anne, so she might believe that, if she waited long enough, he would banish Anne from his side, and that once Anne was gone, he would reach out to his eldest daughter, missing her so badly that he would be eager to welcome her back into his life, as a Princess once more, willing to forget what he had learned over the past years, not to mention forget Mary's disobedient, unfilial, even treasonous behaviour, rather than remain alienated from his daughter if she did not acknowledge her bastard status and her father's place as Supreme Head of the Church of England.

Chapuys undoubtedly had Mary convinced of this, filling the girl with false hope that he might be induced to forget what he knew of the invalidity of his marriage to Katherine, for Mary's sake, and that Jane's kind intentions towards Mary might allow her to persuade him to allow her the honours of a Princess, for her sake, as though _he_ was in the wrong for ever denying them to her.

How much unpleasantness might he have to endure with Mary before the girl yielded, how many bitter disputes over the girl's status would there have to be?

It might be many months, perhaps even years, before he could persuade Mary to yield, especially if she was slow to accept that Anne would not be set aside and that the rumours she had heard of another lady who might supplant Anne in his affections had come to nothing, or if she was led to believe that the Emperor would succeed in badgering Henry into restoring her as his heiress as long as she held to her stubborn insistence on her title as Princess and never yielded. During those months, he would have to treat his dear daughter as his enemy rather than his beloved child. He would not be able to have her at court until she acknowledged her bastard status, and he knew that he would miss her, now that he had enjoyed almost a year of being reconciled with her.

And yet he was not entirely regretful about the way things had transpired.

If Anne's execution were reversed, his hands would be washed clean of her blood. Even God would not be able to condemn him for the sin of Anne's murder, not when He would see how much Henry sacrificed in order to bring her back, and know that he had made amends for his sin. The price he paid to bring Anne back was high, but surely he would find favour in God's sight as a result.

The next time he saw little Elizabeth, he would be able to know that he had given his daughter her mother back. It might pain him to lose his happiness with Jane, and the hope of their son, just as he was sure that Mary would regret losing the stepmother who had treated her with such kindness, consideration and respect – though Mary was blessed, in a way, as she would never remember that Anne had died and that Jane had taken her place as Queen, and she would never know of the kindness she would have shown her – but Elizabeth would have Anne again.

She had told him that she would rather have her mother back than her title as Princess and now he was going to give her both her loving mother and the royal honours she had once enjoyed.

Elizabeth would never even remember losing either of them.

"What will happen?" Henry heard himself ask the question in a hoarse voice. "Will I go back to before she died, or will the world change by the time you send me back?"

He found himself hoping for the latter.

If he was to be sent back to a changed world, a world where Anne was never sent to her death, and where she remained his Queen, the changes would be made and he would be able to see how the world had progressed without Anne being sent to her death, without him annulling their marriage or disinheriting their little daughter. Perhaps, if he was very fortunate, the Henry who lived in that world, the Henry whose place he would take, would have made the difficult decisions for him already, deciding how best to deal with Mary, and how best he could secure her cooperation so that he might bring her back to court, as well as deciding what he should do about Jane, so that the worst of the unpleasantness would be over and he could go on with his life.

He might even have rebuilt his relationship with Anne, so that Henry would not need to win her trust once more and show her that her place in his life would never be usurped.

Of course, based on his past experiences with the Executioner, he knew better than to think that his guide would ever allow him to take the easy way out.

Even now, when he had done as the Executioner wished and saved Anne, he was sure that he would not be spared any of the difficulties that lay ahead of him.

"You will go back to before her execution, and before her arrest. When you go back, none of it will have happened. You will remember, so that you will be able to alter your decisions based on what you now know but it is better for her if she does not need to know what you did to her, don't you agree? If you want to save her, you will know what you need to do when you get back and, from then, the life you make will be your own, and it will be shaped by your future choices. I can't tell you what your future will hold." He added, before Henry could ask him about it.

"I understand." Henry said, wondering what point of his history with Anne he was to be sent to.

Did the Executioner intend that he should go back to the moment before he gave Cromwell orders to investigate the allegations made against Anne, or might he go back even further, to an earlier point in their marriage, so that he could begin treating Anne differently?

He thought that he would like to go back to before Jane had caught his eye; even though he was to remember everything of what had happened, and would not be allowed the luxury of forgetting how much she meant to him and how happy they were, he couldn't help but think that it would be easier for him if Jane, her family and the rest of the court never knew how he felt about her.

If not, how was he supposed to know how he ought to treat her and her family? How could he know what he should say to Jane when he broke the news to her that she would not be his Queen, after all, when he had as good as promised her and her family that she would? He might not have stated his intention to annul his marriage to Anne, and it would not have been fitting for him to propose marriage to Jane until he consulted Cranmer and heard the archbishop's assurances that his marriage to Anne was no marriage, but they were not fools and knew what he hoped.

Now the hopes of the Seymour family, and the hopes he and Jane had shared would come to nothing and he did not know how he was going to be able to tell her that in a way that would let her know that his feelings towards her were unchanged and that, if things were different, he would be overjoyed to be able to call her his wife. Would Jane think him changeable, inwardly condemning him for leading her to believe that he would marry her only to change his mind and scorn the opportunity to rid himself of Anne, even if she didn't openly reproach him for it?

If she did, was there anything he could do to change her mind?

Should he try to change her mind or would it be better for him to let her think that she had never truly had a chance of being Queen so that she would not regret that it was not to be?

If the Executioner could hear what he was thinking, he gave no sign of it, and he offered no advice as to how Henry ought to deal with the woman he wanted as his Queen, or her family.

"I have one request that I would like to make of you." The Executioner's voice was surprisingly gentle, an almost pleading note in it, one that took Henry aback.

"What is it?" He asked.

"You have decided that you will save her life, and you understand that this means that you will be keeping her as your wife." The Executioner stated, repeating the terms of the earlier proposal – as though Henry was likely to forget them! "However, other than that, your choices for your future and hers are your own, so I am asking you to be good to her. Make her happy. Be kind and gentle, even when you feel impatient, and remember how much you loved her before, and how much you wanted her to be your wife. She loves you and, if you let her, she can make you happy. Give her that chance, please, for both of your sakes. You won't regret it."

"Why are you asking me this?" Henry asked, feeling puzzled.

The Executioner was not speaking simply of a wrong that needed to be righted, a murder that needed to be undone.

He cared about Anne's happiness as well as her life, and he wanted to know that she would be happy once she was brought back to life. Saving her life wasn't enough for him, nor was keeping her as Queen. He wanted Henry to do more for her than the terms of their deal demanded. He cared about her, so much so that he had insisted that she retain her place as Queen as well as her life, refusing to allow Henry to deprive her of her title, as though he knew how much Anne would want to keep her title, and for Elizabeth to keep hers. Although Anne would have cooperated, if forced, given the choice, she would want both. She would want to keep her life and ensure that she did not have to surrender her place as his wife and Queen in favour of Jane. She would want to know that her child would be England's next ruler, not a child born of Jane.

It seemed that the Executioner was determined that she should have her way, in all things.

Why?

What was Anne to the Executioner that her fate was of such vital importance to him?

Who was the Executioner?

The Executioner did not answer Henry's questions, spoken or unspoken. All he said was "Please."

Henry felt himself nod, though he did not think that he made a decision to do so, and he could see the relief in the Executioner's eyes, which locked with his as their surroundings melted away.

* * *

Brandon was saying something but Henry, disoriented by his sudden return to his past, did not register the meaning of the words, and he gaped at his friend in confusion.

"I'm sorry, Charles. You're going to need to repeat that." He said, closing his eyes for a moment in order to rest them, and reminding himself to make enquiries about the date from one of his grooms, at the earliest possible opportunity, so that he would know where he stood. Even if the groom was astonished by the question, he would never dare to remark on it, and the grooms of his Privy Chamber were forbidden to gossip, on pain of instant dismissal from royal service. He probably should have thought to ask the Executioner what date he was to be sent back to, so that he could remember what had happened at that time and be prepared for what would happen. Until then, all he could do was hope that events would jog his memory, allowing him to guess the date.

Although Brandon must have been surprised by Henry's words, he hid it well, repeating his comments verbatim.

"As your oldest friend, as well as your most loyal subject, I feel it is my duty, however painful, to report some truths to you." He repeated his words, sounding as though this was not the first – or even the second – time he had spoken them. How long had he spent practicing those words, perhaps before a mirror or with his wife for an audience, rehearsing them until they sounded appropriately sincere and concerned, with his face schooled into an appropriately sober expression, before approaching Henry to speak them, confident of the effect they would have on him? Had he doubted, even for a moment, that Henry would seize on his words and order an investigation, or had he feared that he would face his anger for daring to accuse his Queen? Had the thought that Henry might ask Anne about the allegations, believe her when she denied her guilt and punish Brandon for falsely accusing her ever crossed his mind?

Henry doubted it.

"'Truth', said jesting Pilate, 'what is Truth?'" Henry quoted himself wryly.

Once, he told Anne that there should always be truth between them, confiding in her that he believed it to be the very definition of love and promising her that she would always have the freedom to speak openly with him, able to speak her mind on any subject she chose but, when the time came for that to be tested, she wasn't the one in whom he had placed his trust. He never gave her a chance to speak to him, even when she pleaded with him, Elizabeth in her arms, imploring him to give her a chance for the sake of their child and the love they once shared. He trusted Brandon instead, trusted that his friend would not lead him astray, even if he disliked Anne, even if he would have been glad to see the back of her, and Brandon had lied to him.

His trust in Brandon, and in their friendship, was poorly repaid.

Would Anne do better, if he gave her the chance? The Executioner seemed to think that she would.

"There are some rumours about the Queen's behaviour." Had he not been Henry's closest friend, Brandon would not have dared to speak these words, even if Anne no longer enjoyed Henry's favour. Cromwell would never have dared to broach the subject so openly, and while Chapuys might drop unsubtle hints that Anne was responsible for Mary's illness, that she had poisoned the girl or else urged those at Hatfield to treat Mary as harshly as possible in the hope that their cruel treatment would cause the girl such distress that she would become ill as a result of it, so ill that she would not have the strength to fight off her sickness and would die without Anne needing to resort to poison and take the risk that her deed might be discovered, even he would not dare to allege that she was unfaithful, not in Henry's hearing. They had needed Brandon for that. "It seems she entertains men in her room at night, flirts and behaves intimately with them."

Anne was dancing now, little realizing the words being spoken about her, just a few yards away.

For a moment, Henry couldn't take his eyes off her, and he listened with only half an ear as Brandon repeated his allegations, allegations that had brought about Anne's ruin once before, but that would not be allowed to do the same again. She was innocent now, in a way, trusting that he had been sincere when he swore to Chapuys that, if the Emperor wished for an alliance with him, such an alliance would be contingent on him formally acknowledging Anne as Queen of England, a public bolstering of her status – or so she had believed it to be – that was very welcome to her in the aftermath of the loss of their son, when she knew that her position was fragile, especially when her husband's eye had fallen on another woman, one who would not be his mistress.

She might have railed against his mistresses before but she could see that Jane was more of a threat to her because Jane would not be his mistress, prolonging his interest in her.

She wanted to believe she was safe now, that she no longer had to be on her guard against attempts to remove her from her place as Queen in favour of another woman, as had been his intention when he first made his outburst. He had wanted her to believe herself safe so that she could not fight an annulment, so that she would not think that she needed to fight, allowing him to catch her off-guard and see to it that their marriage was rendered null and void and that he was free to marry Jane without hindrance, knowing that Anne could not fight him as Katherine had.

However, despite her relief over his public upholding of her status as his Queen, Anne's gaiety was strained, betraying the fear she still felt, despite her efforts to appear confident and happy. He didn't doubt that most people who saw her now were taken in by her act, believing that she had bounced back from the setback of her miscarriage and that she was certain of her place in her husband's affections, little realizing how frightened she really was, but Henry could see past the mask of joy she wore, and could understand just how terrified Anne was, for herself and Elizabeth.

And she had had no idea of what was going to happen to her.

To her mind, the worst she had to worry about was that her marriage would be annulled, and their child branded a bastard, to pave the way for Jane as Queen and Jane's son as heir to the throne. Katherine was dead, and Anne could no longer comfort herself with the reassurance that he would never set her aside in favour of the woman he was so determined to be rid of for her sake. Perhaps she might have worried about the possibility of poison, she was nervous about that, but she could not have anticipated that she would be branded an adulteress and executed for it.

Even if she had thought to guard against murder, she would never anticipate that, rather than being a secret act carried out by her enemies or her agents – after which Henry would make a show of mourning her before marrying Jane, citing his concern for the succession as the reason for his hasty remarriage – her murder would be carried out in public, disguised by false charges.

She would never have anticipated that he would be willing to go to such lengths in order to be rid of her, not even for Jane's sake.

He would not have gone to such lengths just to be with Jane, no matter how he felt about her.

He had to believe that.

He had to believe that, even if he was told that there was no way that he would be able to annul his marriage to Anne, he would not have been willing to kill her and would have accepted that there was no alternative but for him to keep her as his wife, forgetting the idea of remarriage. He had only taken that step because his friend, a man he believed that he could trust, had taken advantage of the fact that Anne was out of favour so that he could achieve the ambition he had cherished since Anne's coronation and destroy her, as his wretched wife had exhorted him to.

Brandon knew that Henry was too disenchanted with Anne and too angry over the loss of their son to be prepared to listen to the protests of innocence she would undoubtedly make, and he was certainly no longer so enraptured with her that he would have dismissed the possibility that she had betrayed him outright, as he had once dismissed Brandon's allegation that Anne and Thomas Wyatt were once lovers, punishing her accuser for having the gall to breathe a word against the woman he loved, against the Queen of England, and paying his words no further notice.

Brandon knew that, once he made his accusation, Henry would be so jealous and so hurt that he would be determined to punish Anne for betraying his trust, even willing to kill her for it.

Whatever his reason for accusing Anne, whether he feared that Henry might change his mind about setting her aside, if Anne was given time to win him over, something Brandon would never have wanted, or whether he objected to the idea of Anne being allowed to withdraw from her marriage and enjoy a dignified retirement from court, with all of the honours and comforts that Henry would willingly have granted her if she did not make trouble, wanting to see her dead rather than divorced, the result of his accusation was catastrophic, first for Anne, who had lost her life, and now for Henry, who had lost his chance of a happy marriage and a strong son with Jane.

Brandon had destroyed everything, because he could not wait and trust that Henry would send her away, because he couldn't let go of his obsession with destroying Anne.

Henry's fist flew out, connecting with Brandon's jaw with a satisfying crack and Henry watched, glowering, as his once trusted friend hit the ground with a heavy thud. Brandon groaned but, instead of being happy to know that the other man was in pain, Henry was angry that he wasn't in enough pain. He had robbed Anne of her life before, and he had robbed Henry of his happiness with Jane, and he had robbed Henry's son of the life he should have led as the cherished Prince of Wales and, one day, as a King that all of England could be proud of.

He deserved worse, and he would get it.

The music and the dancing stopped and the court watched, agape, as their King pummelled the Duke of Suffolk, punching every part of his body he could reach before he gave up on that and began to kick his prone form, ignoring his groans of pain and his pleas to stop. Henry was so intent on punishing Brandon that he scarcely noticed that he had gathered an audience.

When his rage dissipated enough for Henry to realise that many pairs of anxious eyes were watching him, with his courtiers wondering what Brandon had done to make him so angry that he was prepared to beat him in the Great Hall, in full view of the court. He could hardly tell them the true reason, could never tell them that it was not Brandon's words that angered him as much as what those words had cost him so, thinking quickly, he bent down to grab the prone Brandon by the collar, hauling him to his feet with a rough shake. Because it would mean his death if he struck his sovereign, even in self-defence, Brandon did not fight back or struggle against his grasp. He had no alternative but to bear the beating as best he could, and hope that it would soon be over.

"How dare you insult my Queen?" Henry bellowed as loudly as he could, seizing on the excuse for why he would be so angry with the other man and thinking that he could kill two birds with one stone. Not only would he make it abundantly clear to Brandon and to everybody within earshot that he would not listen to a word against Anne, from anybody who was foolish enough to accuse her, it would also help silence the wagging tongues that had speculated avidly about the likelihood of Anne being set aside, ever since her miscarriage. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you!"

"Your Majesty, I..."

"Silence!" Henry punctuated the word with another punch, and felt Brandon sag in his grasp before he regained his footing. "There's only one thing that I want to hear from you – an apology!"

"I'm sorry." Brandon choked out the words, a trickle of blood dribbling from his lips. His nose was also bleeding, the mixture of blood and mucus smeared on his face making him look gruesome.

"Not to me, you idiot. You will go to apologize to Queen Anne for daring to insult her." Henry told him, gesturing towards Anne with one hand. She was frozen in place, staring at him with wide blue eyes, as bewildered by what was happening as everybody else, if not more so. Looking at her, Henry felt a fresh pang of guilt. His wife was surprised that he would defend her against somebody who insulted her, instead of expecting no less from him, as should be no more than her right.

He clearly had a great deal of work ahead of him if he wanted to make things right between them.

It was plain from the expression on Brandon's face that he was astonished and dismayed to see Henry defend Anne, at least so vehemently – perhaps he had expected a token reprimand for speaking against a woman who was still Queen of England, at least in name, or a warning that Henry would not be pleased with him if the allegations turned out to be groundless, before a full investigation was ordered, one that would manufacture the evidence needed to send Anne to the scaffold. However, he did not dare to disobey Henry, not when he was plainly furious, so he took a step in Anne's direction, looking as though he would prefer to be walking to the scaffold than to apologize to her, before Henry's next words halted him.

"I didn't say that you were to _walk_ to Queen Anne." He pointed out coldly. He had not wanted a scene but now that one had started, he was going to take advantage of it and drive his message home, not just to Brandon but to every member of his court, and to every ambassador present, so that they could let their masters know just how things stood in the English court.

If the Emperor believed Chapuys' hopeful predictions that it would not be long before Anne was set aside and a lady who would suit their purposes better was raised to the throne in her place, he would have to learn that he was mistaken, and King Francis would know that when Henry told him than an alliance between them was conditional on Anne being recognized as Queen, his demand was sincere and he was not hoping for a refusal that would help him justify setting Anne aside. He would also know that Elizabeth's position as Princess was secure and that he did not need to worry about the child being disinherited if he agreed to allow his son to be betrothed to her.

Brandon's eyes blazed and, for a moment, Henry wondered if the other man might actually dare to refuse his order but after a moment, Brandon dropped his head and lowered himself to his knees, crawling a few yards in Anne's direction, as slowly as he dared, conscious of the eyes of the court upon him. His apology was mumbled and his resentment was palpable but that was hardly surprising. He had been so confident that the time had come for him to destroy Anne, once and for all, that it was a bitter shock for him to see Henry side with her instead.

He might not dare to refuse Henry's order but it would be a long time before he forgot this shame... just as it would be a long time before the courtiers forgot what happened to a man when he dared to slander Anne, even if that man was one of Henry's closest friends, a man he had trusted and cared for long before he ever laid eyes on Anne.

If Brandon could be punished so harshly for doing so, they would get worse.

The silence was tense as the courtiers watched the Duke of Suffolk abase himself on the King's orders and Henry's eyes darted from one face to the next, scrutinizing their reactions.

Catherine Brandon looked as though she would love nothing more than to interfere, to protest against this indignity for her husband but she was intelligent enough to realize that she needed to keep her mouth shut, to know that it was better for Brandon to endure the indignity of having to grovel at Anne's feet and publicly beg her to pardon him for an offence that was, to his mind – and, in all likelihood, his wife's too – no offence at all but a penalty Anne had justly earned than that she should voice an objection to the way he was being treated and earn the Brandon family an even greater share of royal anger, one that could see them permanently banished from court, unable to win their way back into Henry's good graces or to target Anne again.

Even if a time came when he allowed them to return to court, Henry was determined that neither Brandon nor his wife would have the slightest opportunity to harm Anne again.

A few faces were bright, betraying their pleasure at this turn of events. Thomas Boleyn's glee at the fact that Henry had spoken in Anne's defence and punished his friend for insulting her was ill-concealed. George Boleyn was also pleased, although Henry suspected that his pleasure was for Anne's sake only, that his brother-in-law was glad that his sister was defended rather than happy to see a nobleman who was no friend to the Boleyns publicly shamed. Others, like Thomas Wyatt and Mark Smeaton, men who cared for Anne and who must be worried about her position, now that it was known that Henry loved Jane Seymour, were pleased for her sake, taking this as a sign that Anne's place as Queen was more secure than they had feared.

Edward Seymour was a master at concealing his emotions when necessary, and only the briefest flash of fear entered his eyes to show that he was troubled by this turn of events. The rest of the Seymour family were not so adept at maintaining a blank expression and both Sir John and his younger son were visibly troubled to see Brandon – whom they must have counted as an ally of the Seymour family in their quest to see Anne cast aside so that Jane might take her place as Queen – humiliated thus and Jane was even more distressed. Henry could see pity for Brandon in her eyes but she also kept stealing glances at him and at Anne as she watched the scene play out in front of her, as though she was trying to work out what this meant for her.

If Henry was defending Anne, did that mean that his love for her was renewed and that she could expect that she would soon be ordered to leave the court and return to her family's home?

Had Anne managed to win Henry back, despite the fact that the odds were stacked so heavily against her, ensuring that Jane would never be able to come between them again?

Was she watching her hope of becoming his wife and Queen die?

Anne was the most shocked of all by this development. Her face was white as she watched Brandon crawl to her and heard his resentful apology, her blue eyes wide with disbelief at the sight of Henry's friend and her enemy humiliated thus for her sake. She nodded automatically in response to his words, before looking to Henry to see what he wanted to do next, deeming it best to leave the decision up to him. Brandon did not dare to rise from his knees until he was given leave to do so, no matter how humiliated he was to be left kneeling at Anne's feet.

"Get up and get out of my sight." Henry commanded him brusquely. "And if you are still at court tomorrow morning, you will be committed to the Tower for slandering Queen Anne – and you can take your wife with you." He added, glaring in Catherine Brandon's direction and cursing the day Brandon had decided to marry the wretched woman. Better that he should have lived as a widower after Margaret's death than take that viper as a wife. He was certain that the man he had called 'friend' for so long would never have dreamed of trying to do anything to harm or undermine the woman he loved, the woman he had chosen as his Queen, if not for that woman's influence. She hated Anne and had turned Brandon against her. "Neither of you are welcome in our court."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Brandon responded, rising to his feet and reaching out his hand to take his wife's, so that he could lead her away with what little dignity he could muster.

Henry allowed the silence that hung heavy in the Great Hall in the aftermath of the Brandon's departure to persist for a minute or two before he broke it, his tone hard and cold.

"Anybody else who dares to slander our beloved Queen Anne can expect the same treatment, if not worse." He warned gravely. He allowed his gaze to settle on several people, including Chapuys and the Seymour family, those he knew to be Anne's enemies, people who needed to know that they could not hope that a move against her would have his support. In the past weeks – from their perspective, it felt like a lifetime for him – he had given them cause to think that he would welcome any suggestion as to how he could rid himself of Anne and make himself a free man once more but he wanted them to know that this was no longer the case. He had sworn to keep Anne as his Queen, and he would keep his vow. "No matter who they are."

His message delivered, he extended his hand to Anne. "My Queen." As soon as she placed her hand in his, he swept out of the Hall with her, knowing that as soon as they were out of earshot, rampant gossip and speculation would begin as the courtiers debated the impact of his words, some rejoicing and others aghast, depending on their attitude towards Anne.

He had delivered his message, and he knew that they had taken his meaning.

* * *

He had intended to wait until morning before he spoke to Anne, thinking that he needed the time to get his thoughts in order and to decide what, exactly, he was going to say to her before they came face to face again but, within a couple of hours of escorting her to her apartment and bidding her goodnight, he felt as though he could not wait any longer before saying what needed to be said and he sent a message to Anne, requesting her presence in his Privy Chamber.

Anne appeared within minutes, so quickly that it was plain that she had come as soon as she received his message, taking only the time she needed to don a deep green velvet robe over her nightgown, and to put on the matching slippers before coming to him. Her long hair was loose. It would have taken her a long time to change into a proper gown and to put her hair up, even with the assistance of her ladies, and she was plainly apprehensive about not leaving him waiting for her a moment longer than was absolutely necessary, for fear that he would become impatient and angry, and that the delay would cost her his good will. Madge Shelton and Nan Saville, both looking as though they too had been called from their beds in haste, accompanied her.

All three curtsied when they entered, Anne's curtsey shallower than those of her ladies, and then at her nod, Madge and Nan withdrew from the room so they could await her outside.

"If I had known that you had retired for the night, my lady, I would have waited until morning to see you." Henry said courteously but he wasn't sure that he meant what he was saying. He didn't think that he could have waited until morning, even if it meant disturbing Anne, but he could have come to her apartment instead of summoning her to his presence if he had known.

"It's alright, Your Majesty." Anne responded with polite formality.

Henry nodded, motioning to one of the chairs in front of the fire. "Sit down, please." He invited her, waiting until she had taken a seat before he sat down in the chair opposite her. They were separated by a small table but he was able to look directly into her eyes as he spoke to her. "I am sure that you have heard some of the rumours going around the court," he began, deeming it best not to dance around the subject, "rumours that the validity of our marriage, and the legitimacy of our child, is in question." He did not allude to the fact that those rumours undoubtedly included the fact that he had fallen in love with Jane, and that it was his wish to marry her so that she might become his Queen, a goal that could only be accomplished if Anne was set aside.

It could come as no surprise to Anne that the validity of their marriage was in question, people had disputed her right to the title of Queen since the day their marriage was first announced, just as they had disputed Elizabeth's right to be Princess of England and heir to the throne, preferring to insist that Katherine was his true wife and that Mary was no bastard but the true heir.

The difference was that, before, he had always stood by her, refusing to allow anybody to deny her place as his wife in his hearing and insisting that she and Elizabeth should be recognized as Queen and Princess, respectively. Before, he had executed men who denied the validity of his marriage to Anne, he had demanded that foreign monarchs should accept his new marriage, and he had sent delegations to Katherine and Mary, commanding them to cease to claim titles to which they had no right and punishing them with hardship and separation when they refused to obey.

Before, there was very little that he was not prepared to do to defend his wife and daughter.

Now, however, Katherine was dead and Anne had cause to fear that, instead of defending her place as his Queen, he would support those who challenged it so that he might have Jane. Now she had to worry that, instead of defending Elizabeth from those who would call their little girl a bastard, he would disinherit their child in favour of the Lady Mary, at Jane's urging, leaving his elder daughter as heiress presumptive pending the birth of a son by Jane, the son that Anne had promised to give him but that, so far, she had not been able to bring into the world.

"Yes, Your Majesty." Anne's voice was steady but Henry could hear the fear in her tone, and could guess what thoughts must be running through her mind as she listened to him.

Her eyes were full of hurt but he saw resignation there too and knew, by looking at her, that she had already accepted that if he had decided that he wished for their marriage to be declared invalid, she would not be able to fight him. Any power she wielded came from him, and could be withdrawn at his pleasure. Even Cranmer, who was a friend to the Boleyn family and had been for many years and who, in his capacity as Archbishop of Canterbury, had pronounced Henry's union with Katherine null and void and who had declared that his marriage to Anne was lawful in the eyes of God, would not dare to stand with her once he knew that Henry wished to be rid of her. He was not like Bishop Fisher, who clung to Katherine's cause even when everybody could see that she had lost, and Anne had no ally like Thomas More who would side with her in defence of her marriage and her child's place, no matter what consequences he had to face for doing so.

Even Anne's father, brother and uncle would not dare to side with her once they knew that it was Henry's wish to end their marriage. They would rather retain his favour than support Anne.

If Anne tried to fight for their marriage, she would fight alone, she would lose and she knew it.

She was not such a fool that she would fight a losing battle, not when she could only hurt herself and, more importantly, Elizabeth by doing so.

"I don't want you to pay any attention to those rumours." Henry instructed. Anne looked surprised by his words but she didn't say anything. Her posture was tense as she waited for him to tell her what he had planned for her and for their child. "Our marriage is lawful and valid, and I will not allow any man to question that fact – or any woman either." He added with a frown, remembering that Jane, no doubt at the urging of her family, had dropped hints that his marriage to Anne was viewed as unlawful and that little Elizabeth was not accepted as legitimate.

When he first heard Jane speak those words, over a year ago – though, now that he had gone back, it was only a matter of days since she raised the issue – it had not occurred to him to think that Jane might be trying to undermine Anne's position, and that of Elizabeth, in the hope that it would encourage him to dissolve his marriage to Anne sooner rather than later, and marry her.

He had thought Jane too innocent and too unambitious to be willing to make a move like that, and he certainly had not thought that there was any reason why she would speak against little Elizabeth's legitimacy if she did not truly believe that the child's right to the title of Princess was doubtful but now – in fact, he had thought that, as Jane was so sweet, it must have given her great pain to say or do anything that would lead to an innocent child like Elizabeth being harmed in any way and that only her innate honesty could have obliged her to speak her mind on the subject – he could not help but wonder if he had underestimated Jane.

Once she became Queen, Jane had spoken for the Lady Mary, stressing her earnest desire to be able to welcome the girl to court and be a friend to her, even attempting to dissuade him from proceeding against Mary when it appeared that the girl was still determined to cling to the lie of her legitimacy, defying her father and her sovereign. He had believed that she was motivated by pity for a lonely girl, and the kindness of a tender heart, so even though he was irritated by her interference, he could forgive her for it, but was there more to it than that?

Chapuys was the first ambassador Jane had received, and from his hiding place behind a screen, Henry had heard the man thank Jane for her efforts to bring about a reconciliation between him and Mary, praising her as a peacemaker and stressing that the kindness she showed Mary would be rewarded by the friendship and love of a dutiful daughter, and even daring to hint that Mary would please Jane more than her own children, as though a disobedient girl like Mary should be more loved than the sons he and Jane would have... or as though Mary would be a worthier heir than their sons, and should come before them. Jane pledged to always show favour to Mary and it quickly became apparent to Henry that she was determined to keep her promise to Chapuys.

Even Elizabeth was able to recognize that Jane favoured Mary far more than she favoured her, even though both girls were Jane's stepdaughters, with equal claim on her affection and care.

A little girl not yet four years old could see it but he was blind to Jane's different attitudes towards her two stepdaughters, never thinking to suspect that she would play favourites.

Had Jane's attempt to cast doubt over little Elizabeth's legitimacy been a deliberate act, calculated to ensure that the child would be disinherited in the hope that, with her young rival declared a bastard, the way would be cleared for Mary to return to court as a legitimate Princess and that, once restored, Mary was guaranteed to be a friend to Jane and to her family?

Had she promised to do this for Mary in exchange for the Emperor's support of her as Queen, knowing that he did not wish to accept Anne and that he would be pleased to welcome a Queen of England who was determined to be a friend to Mary and to bring her back to court with royal honours, ensuring her restoration to the succession if it was possible and to favour if it was not?

He didn't like to think of Jane as being capable of behaving thus, urging that a young, innocent child – a child whose rights she and her family had sworn to uphold when they took the Oath! – should be deprived of legitimacy in order to win the Lady Mary a title she had no true right to, just as he didn't like to think that Jane and her family had been plotting about how best to ensure that Jane would be Queen, even before he indicated that it was his wish to dissolve his marriage to Anne so that Jane could be his new bride, but he couldn't think about that now.

He needed to speak to Anne now, and he needed to ensure that he did not allow himself to be distracted by other thoughts.

He would deal with Jane later.

"There can be no doubt over the validity of our marriage, my lady," he told Anne, wanting to reassure her that he would fight for their marriage, should the need arise, rather than help to see it dissolved in order to replace her with another. She didn't need to fear that anymore. "My union with the Princess Dowager of Wales was invalid, as you well know, and our daughter, the Lady Mary, is illegitimate, a fact that nobody may truthfully deny. The Church of England, under the direction of the Archbishop of Canterbury, investigated the matter thoroughly before pronouncing that union void, and declaring that ours is a true and lawful union. Their verdict is the only one that matters, and I won't allow anybody to dispute this fact." He maintained staunchly, his tone so resolute that anybody who overheard his words could be forgiven if they assumed that Anne might have said something that indicated that _she_ questioned the validity of their marriage. "The succession is vested in the children _we_ will have, and no others."

Anne hid her astonishment at his vehemence as best she could, but he could see that she was surprised to hear him speak thus... surprised, but very relieved and pleased.

If she was thinking of Jane, wondering if, even though her place as Queen was safe, she would still be expected to put up with having the other woman in her household, and with knowing that the whole court knew how Henry felt about her, she didn't show any hint of apprehension and he wasn't entirely surprised by this. Elizabeth was her first priority and he suspected that, as long as Anne could be confident that she did not need to fear the prospect of their child being disinherited, she would learn to tolerate his mistresses without complaint, as Katherine had before her.

He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

"You don't know how happy it makes me to hear you say this, Your Majesty." She said. Her smile was tentative at first but, as it became wider, Henry found himself feeling as moved by it as he had during the happy, golden days of their courtship, when he was so confident that the future would bring him all he could ever want. Looking at Anne's smile, he found it difficult to regret his decision to choose a course of action that would keep her as his wife for her lifetime. At least he could have no doubt that his wife loved him. "I heard some rumours, and I was worried that..."

"You have no need to be worried, Anne, I promise." Henry cut her off firmly. "You are my Queen, and you will be staying my Queen, I swear it to you. Nobody will take your place." Anne nodded, looking too moved to speak, and Henry impulsively reached out to take her hand in his and kiss it. This time, he was not going to send her to the block, was not going to deny their marriage or to rob their child of her legitimacy, but he couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt when he remembered that he did that before, and then went on with his life for over seven months before he was willing to entertain the possibility that she was innocent, almost allowing himself to repeat his mistake. Anne might not remember it but he did, and he wanted to be able to make it up to her. "I was thinking about paying a visit to Hatfield tomorrow," he told her, knowing that Anne's pregnancy had prevented her from making the journey, as had her delicate state of health as she recovered from her miscarriage. "It would make me very happy if you agreed to come with me."

"I would like nothing more, Your Majesty." Anne said, her smile wider and brighter at the prospect of seeing her beloved little girl again. It was rare for them to pay a visit to Hatfield together.

Henry nodded, returning her smile before sobering. "And while we are at Hatfield, I intend to speak to the Lady Mary." He said. Anne flinched slightly at his words, looking worried, afraid that he was about to tell her that it was his wish that Mary should become the heir to the throne, as Chapuys had hinted would be necessary in order to secure an alliance with the Emperor. He continued quickly, not wanting to leave her in suspense. "Mary may not be a princess, but she is my daughter and her place is at court, if she shows herself willing to be properly obedient and loyal to us." He stated firmly. He wanted to have Mary back in his life, and to see his eldest daughter received at court with honour, as she was when he had Jane by his side as his Queen.

He was not going to forget how happy he was to be reunited with Mary, or to give that up.

Jane was lost to him, as was the Prince he hoped to have, but he could still have Mary back.

"Lady Bryan told me that the Lady Mary still refuses to recognize Elizabeth as the rightful Princess, or to accept the validity of our marriage." Anne said, a worried expression on her face as she imagined what it would be like if Henry welcomed Mary back to court before the girl became reconciled to her bastard status, preferring to have her living at court with him than to keep her in exile until she admitted that she was a bastard. She could picture her stepdaughter insisting on referring to her as the Marquess of Pembroke and publicly denying her her title as Queen, making frequent allusions to Katherine as Queen and refusing to yield precedence, always claiming the right to walk ahead, insisting that, in the absence of a Queen that Mary would deign to recognize as having a right to that title, she, as Princess, was first lady at court.

If Henry decided to pamper Mary, Anne wouldn't be able to make her behave respectfully.

Courtiers who were unsure what Mary's restoration and Henry's decision not to oblige her to take the Oath meant might think that they should curry favour with Mary, abandoning her, and foreign ambassadors who witnessed the state of affairs at court might write to their masters to let them know that the Lady Mary stood so high in her father's favour that she was even permitted to treat the Queen as disrespectfully as she pleased, suggesting that, as Henry plainly had such affection for Mary, it would not be long before he restored her as his heir, ahead of Elizabeth, and recommending that their masters should not agree to betroth their sons to a child who was likely to be supplanted as heiress before she was much older, and ask for Mary's hand instead.

There were so many ways in which Mary could make life unpleasant for them, if she was minded to do so and if Henry's affection for his daughter led him to allow her to behave as she chose.

"She will accept that she is illegitimate, and she will recognize that you are my lawful wife." Henry stated, confident that Mary had spoken truthfully when she assured him that she would still have come to recognize the truth about the invalidity of his marriage to her mother, even if Anne had remained Queen. "When she does, I would like to know that you will welcome her." He added, a warning note in his voice. Mary had been stubborn but it was natural that she had wanted to defend her mother, and once she repented of her stubbornness, it should not be held against her.

Whether Anne liked it or not, he expected her to welcome his daughter and to treat her kindly.

"Then I will be happy to welcome her to court." Anne stated truthfully, thinking that this would be desirable for political reasons as well as for personal.

While Mary lived a servant's life at Hatfield, it was inevitable that people would be indignant on her behalf. Even those who could accept Cranmer's ruling on the invalidity of Henry's union with Katherine would think that it was wrong for a young girl who was raised to think of herself as a princess and as her father's heiress and who had enjoyed every luxury and privilege during her early years to be forced to act as a servant to the child who now enjoyed those honours by right. It was inevitable that people would view this as an act of cruelty. If Mary lived at court, and was seen to be treated well and with the degree of honour due to a King's natural daughter, they would have less cause for indignation on her behalf and less cause to sympathize with her.

On a personal level, Henry would want to have his daughter back in his life and would be happier to have Mary at court with them instead of estranged from the royal family. He loved his daughter and would want to treat her kindly, if she behaved as he wished her to. He would consider anybody who attempted to dissuade him from showing Mary kindness cruel, not unjustifiably. Anne's only quarrel with Mary was the girl's refusal to accept her as Queen and Elizabeth as Princess. Once Mary did this, she would be happy to welcome her to court and to show her that she would never need to regret her submission. She would be treated well and honourably.

"Good." Henry's smile was warm and approving, and his touch was gentle as he raised her hand to his lips for another kiss, pleased by her response. It was late, and he thought that they had covered enough for one night, so he released her hand. "We have a long journey tomorrow, Anne, and we will need to leave early. You should go to bed. I'll see you in the morning. Goodnight."

"Goodnight." Anne responded, dipping a slight curtsey before leaving the room to return to her own quarters, feeling more relaxed than she had in months.

For the first time since losing her baby boy, she felt as though she could have hope for the future.

* * *

Because the day was a warm one, they opted to ride to Hatfield on horseback rather than travelling by carriage. It was quicker and more pleasant to travel thus. They were escorted by a company of guards charged with ensuring their safety and Henry, not feeling inclined to spend too much time chatting with Anne, deliberately set a fast pace to discourage conversation.

They set out early in the morning, after a light breakfast, and they were at Hatfield before noon, which pleased them both as it meant that they would have more time with Elizabeth before they needed to return to the palace. Henry dismounted first, extending a hand to help Anne down from her horse and, arm in arm, they made their way towards the door, with one groom hastening ahead to knock and to alert the inhabitants of Hatfield that the King and Queen were here and to warn them that they would need to make haste if they were to offer a fitting greeting.

It occurred to Henry that this was the first time that he and Anne had paid a visit to Elizabeth's establishment at the same time, a thought that he found troubling.

It was true that, when Anne was pregnant, she had not been able to travel for fear of harming the child she carried but, even taking that into account, he had had ample opportunities to bring her with him when he paid Elizabeth a visit. Anne was always eager to see Elizabeth, and would have been delighted to accompany him if he indicated that he would like her to join him, but he had never invited her to accompany him to Hatfield when he was going, usually not bothering to let her know when he intended to see their daughter and only telling her after his return, and whenever she was planning a visit and asked him if he would come, he always had an excuse for why he could not go, even though he enjoyed visiting Elizabeth and knew that she would love to see him, and that she would be doubly delighted to have both of her parents surprise her with a visit.

Perhaps it was because he knew that Mary would also be at Hatfield.

The first time he visited Hatfield, snatching time during his progress to take a detour to his baby daughter's establishment and spend a few minutes greeting Elizabeth and commending Lady Bryan for her care of the precious royal child entrusted to her, he had not asked to see Mary but that had not kept his eldest daughter from standing out on the balcony to watch him prepare for his departure, her presence a silent reproach to him for ignoring her during his visit, for setting her mother aside and for denying her the title of Princess and bestowing it on Elizabeth instead.

She was dressed in black, as though in mourning for the loss of her status as Princess, the loss of her father's favour and the loss of her mother's presence, her posture and the tragic expression on her face exuding grief and distress at the thought that her father could not only have sent her to Hatfield as a servant but also ignore his child when she stood there before him.

She didn't say a word but it was as though he could hear her pleading with him to acknowledge her, if only with the briefest look, anything to let her know that he still cared about her.

Despite intending to hold firm to his resolve to ignore Mary until the girl recognized that it was her duty, as his daughter and as his subject, to accept the truth about the validity of his union with her mother and her illegitimacy, and to cease her false claims to the title of Princess, he could not remain unmoved when he saw his daughter watching him with sorrowful eyes, silently pleading with him for some sign of recognition, and he bowed to her, prompting the gentlemen in his train to do likewise, for fear of reproach if they ignored Mary when Henry acknowledged her.

At the time, he had not stopped to think what was going through the minds of his escorts when they saw him acknowledge Mary, bowing to her as he would to one of the highest ladies in the land, despite the fact that he had passed an Act of Parliament entailing the Crown to his heirs by Anne, excluding Mary as though she was never born, and he knew that they must have wondered what this might mean for Mary and if it signalled a change of heart on his part over her disinheritance or the annulment of his marriage to Katherine but he had not thought of that then, nor had he considered the possibility that Anne might learn of it and worry that he regretted setting Katherine and Mary aside in order to marry her and legitimise Elizabeth.

Later, he chided himself for acknowledging Mary, knowing that such a move could only serve to give her false hope that she would be restored as a Princess and resolving never to do that again.

How could he expect Mary to learn her place if he sent her mixed messages about her status and about his intentions where she was concerned?

He kept his promise, steadfastly ignoring Mary and issuing instructions to Lady Bryan that she was not to be permitted to appear in his presence when he visited and that she was not to be allowed to trouble Anne when she came to see Elizabeth, unless Anne expressly requested Mary's presence, in which case Mary was to be obliged to obey the summons and to pay her respects to her stepmother. He refused to answer any messages Mary sent to him when she heard that he was at Hatfield, begging leave to wait on him, with anything other than a curt refusal but perhaps this way why he was so reluctant to bring Anne with him when he travelled to Hatfield.

If Mary tried to approach him again, Anne would be fretful if she thought that he wanted to speak to the girl, afraid that he would decide to favour her over their daughter, especially as she was older and could converse with him intelligently and play for him on the lute, entertaining him in ways their baby daughter could not. She would be sullen on the way home if he showed Mary any sign of recognition but, at the same time, Mary would have been bitterly humiliated and hurt if he rejected her in front of Anne – or, worse still, she would tell herself that Anne's presence was the only reason he ignored her and that, if he had come alone, he would not have hesitated to greet her, showing her and the others at Hatfield that she was still his most dearly loved daughter.

As delighted as Elizabeth would be to see her parents arrive together today, Mary would be grieved to see it as she would be hoping that Anne was so far out of favour that Henry would never contemplate spending a moment longer in her company than he was obliged to by convention or courtesy, and hoping that Anne's loss of favour would be her gain.

This joint visit would show her that she could not hope to see Anne set aside in favour of a stepmother she would prefer, one who would champion her interests at Elizabeth's expense and who would do everything in her power to shield Mary from the consequences of her defiance and who would, when Mary submitted, give her as warm a welcome to court as she could hope for.

Anne was going to remain part of Henry's life for the rest of her days, and Mary needed to know that, if she hoped for her father's love and favour, she would need to accept that.

She had no other choice.

Once she submitted, he would see to it that she was never given cause to regret it.

Lady Bryan must have had to make haste from the nursery in order to be down in the hall when they arrived but her gown was free of crumples and creases, her cap was straight and there was not even a hair out of place or a flush in her cheeks to betray her rush to be there to greet them. She swept them a deep, immaculate curtsey, waiting for Henry's gesture before she rose. "Your Majesties, it is an honour to see you again." She said politely. "Welcome to Hatfield."

"Thank you, Lady Bryan." Henry said, favouring the governess with a smile. In the other time, when Anne was executed, Lady Bryan must have been shocked and dismayed to learn that the little girl in her charge was no longer a princess but a royal bastard, and one who bore the taint of having a mother who was executed for treason but she continued to care diligently for Elizabeth, defending her interests as best she could and even daring to write to him to ask for money to buy clothes for the child when she outgrew them, though she knew that Elizabeth was out of favour. It made him ashamed to think that he could have treated an innocent little girl thus, and he was grateful to her for caring for Elizabeth when he did not. "How is our daughter?"

"Princess Elizabeth is the sweetest, cleverest and most beautiful child I have ever known." Lady Bryan told him. "She is a credit to Your Majesties, and to England – we have already begun our elementary lessons, and I have never seen a child learn so swiftly. She soaks up knowledge like a little sponge, and she never forgets a thing. It is remarkable for a child of her years."

"I'm not surprised." Henry said, remembering the eloquent little girl who greeted him on his visit to Hatfield before he came back, a child whose cleverness and precocity were plain to see. If he had to accept the idea of leaving his throne to a daughter, he could at least thank God for giving him such a perfect, remarkable child. If any woman could overcome the handicap of being born female and have the intelligence and the strength to rule England, it would be Elizabeth. "She is the most perfect princess that England was ever blessed with." He said, raising his voice slightly so that even the attendants standing at a respectful distance could hear them, in case they had been wondering whether their young mistress might not be allowed to call that title hers much longer.

The sooner he was able to stamp out the gossip about the strife in his marriage to Anne and the likelihood that he would seek to set her aside in favour of another woman, the better.

Lady Bryan's smile at his words was wide and proud, unsurprisingly so, as she had spent more time with Elizabeth than either of her parents did, and took great pains with her upbringing. Behind her, the maids of honour who attended Elizabeth were also smiling at this, both in pleasure at the compliment and relief at the evidence that the child was as favoured as ever.

"The Queen and I would like to see the Princess, when she is ready to receive us." Henry said, watching as Lady Bryan motioned for one of the maids of honour to fetch Elizabeth.

They did not have long to wait before the young woman returned, holding Elizabeth by the hand, smiling indulgently at her young charge as she pulled her hand from her grasp so that she could run to her parents, the skirt of her silk gown rustling as her feet flew.

"Mama! Papa! Mama! Papa!" her excitement was obvious and infectious. She ran to Anne first, and Anne knelt to her level and held her arms out to her, hugging her tightly and showering her with kisses. Henry was aware that, not that long ago, he would have been indignant to see Elizabeth run to Anne before she greeted him but, watching his wife and daughter together now, he couldn't feel anything other than pleasure at the sight of their mutual joy. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Lady Bryan take a half-step forward, ready to restrain her small charge and to remind her that she should greet her parents properly, with a curtsey and a respectful welcome, but he shook his head, signalling that the governess should leave her be.

He and Anne were able to visit only infrequently, and he did not want to waste time on ceremony, nor did he relish the idea of seeing his daughter curtseying gravely and greeting him by his formal honourific rather than as her Papa. When she was older, he supposed that a degree of ceremony would be necessary but Elizabeth was too young for that now.

It was his turn next and Elizabeth squealed with delight as he swung her into his arms, planting a smacking kiss on her cheek. She returned the kiss, putting her arms around his neck and hugging him tightly, resting her head on his shoulder and looking up at him with adoration and admiration.

It was strange to feel how light she was, compared to the child he had carried in his arms a matter of days ago. As was often her custom, Anne had brought new gowns, kirtles and petticoats for their little girl, rich gifts that she knew Elizabeth would rejoice in but Henry knew that it would not be many months before Elizabeth outgrew them… but, by then, Anne would have lavished her with more clothes, just as fine and just as beautifully made. He wondered what Elizabeth thought when she realized that the supply of clothes her mother lavished on her had ceased and saw that, when she began to outgrow the ones she had, no new ones were forthcoming and he reminded himself to tell her that Elizabeth's hair was likely to deepen to red before she was much older, so that Anne could choose fabrics that would suit the striking colouring Elizabeth would soon boast.

His daughter was going to be a great beauty one day, as Anne had predicted.

"I'm so happy that you've come to see me, Papa, you _and_ Mama." Elizabeth declared happily, giggling as her father spun around with her held securely in his arms.

Henry kissed her again, smiling at her joy. "So are we, sweetheart." He told her. "So are we."

* * *

At Lady Bryan's direction, the household made hasty preparations for a meal worthy of their exalted guests but, for once, Henry's interest in the food he was served was minimal. He was far more interested in watching Elizabeth chatter to Anne, filling her in on every detail of her doings since they last saw one another and asking when she would next be allowed to come to court.

"Soon, sweetheart, I hope." Anne said, glancing to Henry and hoping that he would confirm this.

"Very soon, my princess." Henry promised but his attention drifted from his daughter to the tables set in rows in front of the dais, at which the members of the household were eating their meal.

He had expected to see Mary eating at the table immediately in front of the dais, where the maids of honour who were not serving Elizabeth at table were dining but she was not there. Thinking that Mary might have opted for a place further away, not wanting to be so close to Anne that she would be obliged to greet her, he scrutinized the other tables as well, in case his elder daughter had taken a place at one of them, where she could eat her meal quickly, without attracting the attention of the royal party, before departing but there was no sign of her.

"Is the Lady Mary ill?" He asked, feeling irritated to think that Lady Bryan could not have found the opportunity to tell him so, if this was the case. He could understand that she might not want to speak of it to Anne, who was happily occupied with her visit to Elizabeth, for fear of marring the visit but she should have said something to him, even if she had to say it privately.

"No, Your Majesty, the Lady Mary is in good health." Lady Bryan assured him. "Better than usual." She added, the slight frown that creased her brow telling him of the trials that the governess endured, having to deal with a girl as stubborn as Mary, one who was often ill and who claimed illness even more often than that. Her task was an honoured one but not an easy one.

"But I do not see her at table."

"No, Your Majesty." Lady Bryan looked even more uncomfortable now. "The Lady Mary refuses to dine in the Hall, Your Majesty, as she will not sit below the Princess. She has said that she will be pleased to dine in the Hall when she may sit in the place of honour, under a canopy of estate, but not until then – and, of course, we would never allow such a thing." She added hastily, seeing Henry's frown and wanting to make sure that he knew that nobody at Hatfield would ever dream of defying his commands and giving in to the demands of the Lady Mary as long as she presided over Princess Elizabeth's establishment. "I have told her that you have given orders that she is to be seated with the Princess' other maids but she refuses to obey. She eats her breakfast in her chamber in the morning, before she begins her duties, and she takes supper alone but she will not dine in the Hall. I have tried to reason with her but she will not listen."

Henry exhaled sharply. He knew that Mary was obstinate but he had not imagined that she was so obstinate that she would deny herself food rather than conquer her pride.

It was no wonder that she was ill so often if she would not eat properly!

"I do not blame you, Lady Bryan." He told the governess, who was looking anxious, as though she was afraid that she would be reproved, either for not managing to induce Mary to dine in the Hall, as he had ordered, or for not breaking the rules if that was what it took to ensure that his daughter ate well. He reached for Anne's hand, kissing it, and he ruffled Elizabeth's hair. "If you will both excuse me, I think that I need to speak to the Lady Mary." He had intended to do so anyway, after dinner, but now he did not want to wait.

When he first began the task of drawing up plans for Elizabeth's household, and decided that Mary should be obliged to wait on her baby half-sister, in order to teach her her place, he gave orders that until Mary accepted her illegitimacy, she was to be lodged in a small, plain chamber, without any of the rich furnishings, hangings, carpets or ornaments that adorned the royal apartments at Hatfield but, even so, he was taken aback when he was conducted into Mary's chamber by a servant and saw just how cramped, dark and sparsely furnished it was. The narrow bed took up almost the full length of one of the walls, with a chest at the foot for Mary's belongings, and there was a small table and a chair by the room's only window. A few tallow candles were burning, providing faint illumination and a slightly smoky smell but the room was still gloomy.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw Mary rise from the only chair and sweep a deep curtsey to him, and her face was wreathed in a smile of welcome and joy.

"Your Majesty… Father…" She tested both forms of address, wondering if he would be offended if she was not formal with him or if it would please him to hear her call him 'Father'.

It had been so long since they spoke that she no longer knew where she stood with him.

"I did not see you at dinner, Mary." Henry said. He motioned for his daughter to rise from her curtsey but he held himself in check and did not step forward to help her to her feet or to embrace her, even though he wanted to. He needed Mary to see where she stood and, for the moment, that meant that he needed to keep his distance. "Why didn't you come to the Hall to dine?"

Mary lifted her head, her chin set determinedly. She looked as obstinate as her mother had, on the day when Katherine told him that, for every scholar who took his part in the Great Matter, she would find a thousand to vote for her and his heart sank at the sight. Katherine had died alone and without the comforts she could have otherwise enjoyed thanks to her stubbornness. He hoped that Mary would be wiser than her mother but, looking at her now, he thought that it might take months – if not years, with Anne still living – for Mary to accept the unpalatable truth.

She was too much like Katherine… and too much like him, he admitted inwardly… to give in easily.

"It was not my wish to offend you by not appearing, Father," she said, "but I cannot dishonour my rank by sitting below the daughter of your concubine while she dines in state. If I did, people would conclude that I accepted that she is my superior in rank, and that is not the case. I would have been glad to come to pay my respects to you upon your arrival, but you previously gave orders that I was not to be permitted to approach you when you came to visit _Lady_ Elizabeth." She laid a pointed stress on the title and her eyes blazed with defiance as she met his gaze.

" _Princess_ Elizabeth." Henry corrected her sharply. "It is my wish and my command that you address your sister by her rightful title, and that you show her the respect due to her rank."

"She is not the Princess of England!" Mary protested, tears of anger and indignation springing to her eyes at his words. "Her mother is not your Queen, she can't be your Queen because you married her when _my_ mother, your _true_ Queen, lived. I am the Princess and she is the bastard, not the other way around, and you must see that. Your Majesty knows that I am your trueborn daughter. Why are you letting that woman make you pretend that I am not?" She asked bitterly, a scowl creasing her brow as she referred to Anne, her loathing of her stepmother palpable.

Despite intending to be gentle with Mary and to coax her into seeing his side of the matter and recognizing that he was right, Henry was angry to hear her speak thus.

He could understand that Mary's opinion of Anne was a low one, that was natural under the circumstances, especially as he was certain that his daughter's mother and governess would have done their best to convince Mary that Anne and Anne alone was responsible for the Great Matter, which would never have happened if not for her as they would not want to distress Mary by blaming him or by letting her believe the rumours about how his lack of a son was the reason why he wanted to take a new wife, as Katherine was too old to give him a son and he was unwilling to accept Mary as a suitable heir. However, Mary was no longer a child and should not be trying to hide from the truth by clinging to excuses and blaming Anne for everything.

Anne did not rule him and never had, even at the height of his love for her.

He was the one who recognized that his marriage was invalid, before he contemplated the idea of marrying Anne. Did his daughter think him a fool who was manipulated by a girl? Did she think so little of him that she believed that, for the sake of his lust, he was willing to set aside his wife and bastardise their daughter even when it meant fighting the pope and the Emperor? In some ways, it would have been easier for him to keep his mouth shut and pretend that Katherine was his lawful wife until the day she died but, once he realized that their union was unlawful, his conscience wouldn't allow him to pretend it was, not even for Mary's sake. Even if he never met Anne, he would have had no choice but to extricate himself from a sinful union.

How dare Mary suggest that he set Katherine aside for his own purposes?

"It is treason for you to claim the title of Princess, Lady Mary." He told his daughter coldly. "You are illegitimate. I understand that it was distressing for you to learn this and because of this, I have been patient with you." He was aware that some would dispute this, calling him cruel for sending Mary to wait on Elizabeth but, at the time, it had seemed like the quickest and most effective way to bring his obstinate daughter to an understanding of her true place in the world. He also felt that he had shown great patience by not taking sterner measures against her for her refusal to take the Oath. "But you are no longer a child and it is time for you to accept the truth. I am your King as well as your father, and you have a duty to obey me."

"I cannot go against my conscience, Your Majesty, even at your command." Mary insisted. "I am the Princess of England and you know that I am!"

Henry sighed inwardly. As angry and as irritated as he was by Mary's obstinacy, he had to admit that there was a small part of him that was proud to have sired a daughter who, while she was wrong in her beliefs, was brave enough to stand against him. The young woman standing before him was not the sweet little girl he remembered lifting in his arms, the child who idolized her beloved father, but she was somebody that he wanted to get to know again, somebody from whom he had been parted for far too long and whom he wanted in his life again.

"I know that you are my daughter, Mary." Henry gentled his tone. "That is what matters most, is it not? Far more than the question of titles? Your mother refused to admit that she was not my wife, she was too proud to see the truth, and too proud to give up the title of Queen, even when she knew that justice demanded it. I know that she taught you to think yourself legitimate, and I do not blame you for wanting to believe it, but it is time that you recognized the truth. You are illegitimate but that does not need to make a difference to you, not if you don't let it."

He meant what he was saying.

If Mary would yield to him, if she would allow him to welcome her back into his life, she would want for nothing. She would have every comfort that she had enjoyed as a Princess and she would be welcomed to his court with royal honours. No courtier, no matter how high-ranking they were, would be allowed to use Mary's bastard status as an excuse to disrespect her. If he could find a suitable prince, he would arrange a splendid marriage for her and, if her illegitimacy meant that no prince would accept her, he would find her an English lord who would know how blessed he was to have such a wife. He would love her just as much as he loved Elizabeth, cherishing them both and showing Mary and the world that she was his beloved daughter, his pearl.

Surely Mary would see reason.

Surely she would not lose all that he would willingly give her in exchange for her cooperation rather than acknowledging that her true title was Lady, not Princess.

"That woman is not your Queen." Mary's voice was trembling now with the effort of holding back tears. "My sainted mother was your true Queen while she lived, and now that God has called her to Him, you are a widower in His eyes. Father, you do not need to stay with her, whatever spells she has used to entrap you! Mother would want you to take a new wife, a true wife, a good woman who is worthy of being your Queen! I've heard that you don't want to stay with her, so don't! If you say that my mother was your wife, you will be able to marry any lady you choose!"

Henry was alarmed to see that Mary's face became pale and her breathing was shallow and rapid. He was afraid that she would faint if she became any more agitated than she was already so he waited for her to get herself under control before he spoke again.

"I'm not going to do that, Mary." He said gently, inwardly wondering what Mary would think if she ever learned what had happened before, or if she knew how it made him feel to know that he had lost his chance to marry Jane and have a son with her, and that he still chose to save Anne. "Even if I wanted to marry another woman, I won't pretend that the Queen is not my lawful wife, or that our daughter the Princess is not my legitimate heir. _That_ is the truth and if you want to be a part of my life, you will have to accept that."

For the briefest of instants, he could see a flash of longing in Mary's eyes, one that told him how difficult it had been for her not to receive the love he had lavished on her during her childhood. If it had been difficult for him to turn his back on Mary, it must have been doubly painful for her; he had Anne and Elizabeth, and many activities to divert him but Mary had nothing and nobody.

"The Queen and Princess are in the Hall." He said coaxingly, extending a hand to Mary. "come with me, and pay your respects to them, and you can come back to court with us – or, if you do not want to come to court," he added, mindful of the fact that Mary might not be ready to live under the same roof as Anne, "we can choose a palace for your household."

He would not demand much from Mary, not yet. The Oath could come later but, for the moment, he would be satisfied with something more minor than that; a curtsey, low enough to show that she recognized that Anne was her Queen... that she address her as 'Your Majesty' or 'Queen Anne'... that she call Elizabeth 'Princess', at least once... he would be happy to accept it.

It would take Mary half a minute, no more, and then he could show her favour again.

He was sure that she wavered, wanting to have his love again, but she would not place her hand in his and, when he looked at her face, he could see that, for now, her mind was made up.

"No, Your Majesty." She said, clenching her hand into a fist and pressing it to the black folds of her skirt, as though she was afraid that it would place itself in his hand against her will. "I will not."

He could tell from the expression on her face that she expected him to shout at her, to threaten her with a harsh punishment for defying him but, even though his first instinct was to castigate Mary for her ingratitude and disobedience, to remind her that, as his daughter and as his subject, she was duty-bound to obey him and to warn her that there were worse accommodations for her than this chamber, and worse fates than waiting on Elizabeth, he was able to control himself.

Two and a half years ago, he sent Mary to Hatfield to wait on Elizabeth and to learn her place but that lesson had clearly not been learned, so it was time to try a different method.

After Anne's execution, he had removed Mary from Elizabeth's household and allowed her an establishment of her own at Hundson, to show her that she would be well-treated once she obeyed him and, not long after her removal to Hundson, Cromwell was able to bring him Mary's submission. It was true that it had taken Mary some time, as she had probably taken her improved circumstances as a sign that he was softening towards her and that he would not continue to press her to take the Oath but, once Sir Francis Bryan made the situation plain to her, she yielded.

If he replicated the additional consideration he showed to the girl after Anne's execution, that might succeed in getting Mary to admit the truth, once and for all.

"I am disappointed in you, Lady Mary." He told his daughter sternly, deliberately emphasizing the title she refused to accept. "If you do not wish to be reconciled with your father, then that is your choice and you will have to live with the consequences." He allowed her to digest his words for a few moments, to imagine what he might mean by consequences, before he continued. "It was my hope that your time at Hatfield, in attendance on Princess Elizabeth, would teach you your place but it does not seem to have moved you and I do not want the Princess exposed to your unfilial, disobedient and treasonous conduct, in case you set her a bad example, so you will be removed as soon as arrangements can be made. You are to live at Hundson House from now on."

Mary's face betrayed her surprise and pleasure at this news, clearly taking it as a victory, believing that her refusal to accept her lowered status had won her a household of her own and that she could take this as a sign that her father was more favourably disposed to her than she thought.

He was quick to disillusion her. "At Hundson, you will be addressed by all as 'Lady Mary'. I will be placing a trustworthy steward and chamberlain in charge of your affairs, and they will see to it that nobody will pander to your pride and address you by a title to which you have no right. If you choose not to accept the service of those who address you by your correct title of Lady, that is your choice." He told her, remembering how stubborn Katherine was about refusing to allow those who addressed her as Princess Dowager to tend to her and allowing only the single lady who called her Queen to attend to her. Only his awareness that the Emperor might deem himself duty-bound to interfere if his aunt was left entirely without attendants kept him from ordering Mistress Darrell to leave Katherine when she proved to be as obstinate as her mistress about using the forbidden title. For Mary, there would be no concessions. "You will not be permitted to receive visitors or letters, and if you attempt to plot treason, I will not spare you the punishment."

Mary's life at Hundson would be what she made of it, for better or worse. If she was sensible and accepted the service of the modest household he would arrange for her, one appropriate for his natural daughter, and if she accepted the allowance he would supply to her as his natural daughter, her time there would be comfortable and pleasant. If she was stubborn and disagreeable, insisting that she was the Princess and scorning the service of servants who would not humour her, she would have nobody but herself to blame for her discomfort and difficulties.

"When you decide to be my good, obedient and loving daughter and subject and take the Oath, I will be delighted to welcome you to court. Until then, I will not regard you as my daughter." Mary let out an audible sob at this but he did not make any attempt to comfort her, although part of him wished to. He needed to hold firm, or Mary would never give way. "It is up to you."

He turned on his heel and walked out of the bleak chamber, steeling his heart against the sound of weeping and refusing to allow himself to turn back to offer Mary some comfort.

If he had to harden his heart to Mary in order to get her to take the Oath, he would do so.

It was the only way that he could have her back in his life.

* * *

Anne was in excellent spirits after their return to Hatfield, her face alight with happiness, as though she was able to draw sustenance from being in Elizabeth's presence. It had been a long time since he saw her looking so radiant. She had not asked him about what he said to Mary, and made no protest about the household that was to be set up at Hundson. Her expression was so guarded that he did not know whether she was dismayed, thinking that this was a mark of favour for Mary and a sign that she needed to worry that he might opt to favour Mary over Elizabeth as his heir, or if she was glad that Mary was to be removed from Elizabeth's household.

It occurred to him that he had never asked Anne's opinion about Mary waiting on their daughter.

When they returned, however, he raised a subject that brought a look of dismay to Anne's face before she could conceal it.

"If she is not occupied with her duties in your household, please send Mistress Seymour to my Privy Chamber." He instructed, not meeting Anne's eyes as he spoke the words. He knew that it would distress her but he reasoned that it would surely be more upsetting for her if he sent for Jane without telling her, since secrecy would make her suspect the worst. "I wish to speak to her."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Anne responded unhappily, curtseying gracefully before she withdrew. She didn't argue with him, ask him what he wanted with Jane or reproach him for his attentions towards her lady-in-waiting. She did not even complain about being used as the messenger between him and Jane. She clearly knew that it would do no good to remonstrate with him and had decided that it would be better for her to accept it quietly, even if it was embarrassing for her to have to seek Jane out to tell her that Henry wanted to see her.

He felt sorry for her but, by nightfall, Anne would know that she need not have worried.

Less than a quarter of an hour later, one of Henry's grooms announced Jane and she entered the room, sweeping him the deepest curtsey and keeping her head lowered modestly.

"Rise, Mistress Seymour." Henry told her brusquely. He could see that she was surprised to hear him address her thus, by her name instead of by an endearment and her blue eyes were impossibly wide as she looked at him, anticipating that this boded ill but not knowing what she should do in order to avert disaster. There was nothing that she could do, even if she wanted to. His mind was made up, and he would not change it. There was nothing that Jane could say or do to turn him from his chosen course. "As I am sure you are aware, Mistress Seymour, you and I have been the subject of a great deal of gossip of late – although, thankfully, it seems to be confined to the court and has not yet spread among the people. It seems that our friendship has given them the wrong impression." He added blandly, as though he had no idea why there would be any rumours about them. "They seem to believe that I wish to have you as my wife!" He adopted a scornful tone, as though such a suggestion was utterly ridiculous.

"Your Majesty, I promise you that I have been discreet. I only spoke of it to my family, not to anybody else, I swear it." Jane hastened to assure him.

"Not that there was anything to speak of, was there, Mistress Seymour? Our friendship was innocent, and nothing more than a friendship." He spoke slowly and with emphasis. Jane was not clever like Anne, and would not be able to read between the lines of what he was saying as easily. He could not spell out the fact that, from now on, they both needed to pretend that there was never anything between them but an innocent friendship, that he had shown her no more attention than he would any other lady at court, and that they never spoke of marriage, but he hoped that Jane would be able to grasp the meaning of his words, and understand what she needed to do in order to allow all concerned to move on.

Jane opened her mouth to protest then closed it again, taking a couple of minutes to digest what he was saying and to realize what it meant. It irritated him to see how long it took her to understand and accept what he was saying. "No, Your Majesty." She said at last, her voice meek.

Henry gave her a curt nod. "I am sure that you understand that, although there was no real foundation for the rumours, my beloved wife, Queen Anne, is very distressed about them. The last thing that I wish is to cause her grief, and we both know that it will do your reputation and your prospects great harm if we allow those rumours to continue." His threat was a thinly veiled one; it was undeniable that Jane's reputation at court had suffered but, if they put at stop to it now, her good name might be salvaged. If Jane chose to be foolish and clinging, she would add fuel to the fires of gossip but the chief casualty would be herself. Few would think ill of him for enjoying the company of a pretty woman but they would condemn an unmarried woman for giving herself to a married man. "I think that it would be best if you left the Queen's household."

A pink flush spread over Jane's cheeks at this, betraying her embarrassment at the idea of being dismissed. "Does Your Majesty wish me to remain at court?" She asked hopefully, thinking that, even if she was no longer to wait on Anne – and since Anne was to remain Queen, Jane had no wish to continue to wait on her – she could live at court with her father.

"That would hardly be fitting, Mistress Seymour, under the circumstances."

He had thought about what it would be like to keep Jane at court.

When he first fell in love with Anne, recognizing instinctively that she was like no other woman he knew, he offered her the role of maitresse en titre, a role that would formally acknowledge her place in his heart and a role that he could offer Jane now, if he chose. Anne might be jealous but he could see to it that Jane knew her place and did not offend her by flaunting the fact that she was favoured and, in any case, Anne was likely to be too relieved that she did not need to worry that she and Elizabeth would be set aside to be unduly troubled if Jane was his mistress. She would definitely prefer to know that Jane was his mistress rather than having to fear that, despite his assurances that their union was valid, he would try to make her his wife.

He knew that they could conceive their child together, and allow it to be born illegitimate but still honoured, even if it could not be royal but he also knew how he would feel if it was a boy.

If he took Jane as his mistress and she bore his son, he would forever regret that their son was born a bastard instead of a prince. He would come to resent Anne for the fact that, in choosing to save her life, he cost his son by Jane his chance of being Prince of Wales, and if that happened, he would not be able to be happy with her, or to make her happy.

In this case, it was better for him not to know what the child would have been.

"What will happen to me, Your Majesty?" Jane's voice was small and she was plainly distressed to think of what might lie in store for her in the future. She was not to be Queen, and she doubted that her family would enjoy the great honours that her father and brothers had hoped for. She was unlikely to find a lord who was willing to marry her, as they would all be aware of her previous relationship with Henry and would suspect that she was no virgin, and she did not relish the idea of marrying a country squire when she hoped to marry the King of England.

"I am sure that your father will arrange a marriage for you," Henry said briskly, inwardly resolving to have a quiet word with Sir John to let him know that, in light of what had happened, he was willing to contribute to Jane's dowry and to help find a suitable country gentleman, preferably one who would not wish to bring his bride to court, who would marry her.

"Yes, Your Majesty." A sullen edge entered Jane's voice, one that surprised Henry as he had not thought of her as a woman who would sulk if she did not get her way.

Part of him wanted to apologize to her, as he had led her to believe that she would be his wife and that, far from being shamed by their relationship, she and her family would derive great honours.

Part of him wanted to promise her that, even though she had to leave the court, he would continue to think kindly of her and, if she ever needed his help, he would be happy to do her whatever service he could for the sake of the love he had borne her.

Part of him wanted to tell her that he would make her father a lord, to help her make a better marriage and to compensate her and her family for the embarrassment they would suffer.

But he didn't say any of those things.

He couldn't tell Jane the truth about why she was not going to be his wife, and any excuse he could give her would sound hollow.

"I will tell the Queen that I have given you leave to resign your position in her household and return to your family's home." He said, speaking more gently this time and thinking that there was at least one service he could do for Jane. By telling Anne of her departure himself, he could spare her the embarrassment of having to go to her to beg for leave to withdraw. "You may go to your family's apartment and pack your things. I will speak to your father, and let him know that he should make arrangements for you to travel to Wolf Hall as soon as can be arranged."

"If that is what Your Majesty wishes." Jane responded, her dismay plain.

"It is." Henry told her flatly, nodding briefly to indicate that their audience was at an end and that she should leave. She curtsied without another word, backing out of his presence.

He expected to feel regret at the sight of Jane's retreating back but, to his surprise, his chief emotion was relief. Their time together had been happy but he didn't think that he would miss her as much as he would have thought... as much as he would have missed Anne, and his life with her and with Elizabeth if he had decided against saving her. He could think about the prospect of her marrying another man, keeping his house and bearing his children without feeling jealous of whichever man became Jane's husband but he would have been jealous if Anne remarried.

Watching Jane leave, he was able to think that this was for the best.

* * *

He couldn't sleep that night.

He lay awake in his bed, trying to remain still so that he did not disturb the groom sleeping at the foot of the bed, and mulled over the events of the day.

All things considered, he believed that he had handled things with the women in his life as well as could be expected.

Elizabeth was delighted to see him and Anne together and, as she grew older, she would be able to enjoy the knowledge that her place in the world was a secure one and that she would always enjoy the love of two parents who would do everything in their power to ensure that she was happy, safe, honoured and well-cared for. She would never want for anything and he would always cherish her as the child of his love for Anne, as his precious jewel of England. He wanted her to be happy and, if God did not grant him a son by Anne, he would see to it that Elizabeth was given the education she would need to rule England, the same education he would give a Prince of Wales.

Mary would be distressed tonight, he could not pretend otherwise, but he was sure that he had made it clear to her what she needed to do if she wished to have his favour again, and that, as stubborn as Mary was, she would not cling to her defiance much longer, once she saw that he meant what he said about distancing himself from her until she took the Oath. He would not have to wait too long before she wrote to him, apologizing for her offences against him and pledging to take the Oath and, until then, she would be comfortably provided for at Hundson.

Jane had already left for Wolf Hall, her belongings packed in haste and a carriage arranged to bring her home as soon as she was ready to travel. Her brother, Edward, accompanied her and Henry didn't doubt that that shrewd man would know that, after the way Henry defended Anne when Brandon spoke against her, Jane's dismissal from court could not be taken any other way than that Henry no longer wished for her to be his wife. He was no fool who would delude himself into thinking that this was an attempt at deception on Henry's part, allowing him to make the court believe that he was reconciled with Anne and buying himself time to move against her and, once she was gone, to recall Jane to court so that he might marry her.

Sir John Seymour might have tried to console his daughter, and himself, with theories about Henry sending Jane away to still gossip about them so that, when he annulled his marriage to Anne, he would not need to worry about the people condemning him for setting aside another wife when he decided the he would prefer another woman but Edward would not let her cling to false hope.

He would ensure that Jane could harbour no illusions about her chances of being Queen, telling her that her hopes were at an end as soon as Henry turned on Brandon for speaking against Anne.

Anne was more cheerful than he had seen her in a long time. Her pleasure in the time spent with Elizabeth was evident and, when he went to her to let her know that he had dismissed Jane, she impulsively thanked him for it before checking herself, remembering that, as Queen, she should not trouble herself to notice Jane's existence, much less the fact that Henry was attracted to her. She was still somewhat wary, as though she expected to discover that there was an ulterior motive that had led him to punish Brandon for slandering her and to dismiss Jane, Anne's one-time rival, from the court but, even though he didn't like to acknowledge it, he had to accept that it was natural that, after everything that had happened, she would be slow to trust her good fortune, and slow to trust _him_. Only time could convince her of his sincerity.

Of the four of them, it was Anne who occupied his thoughts the most, and she was the only one that he was not yet fully happy about the way he left things between them.

It was late but, despite that, Henry rose from his bed, as though his legs had developed a mind of their own. The groom was a light sleeper and awoke as soon as he heard movement, jumping from his cot, ready to serve, but although Henry allowed him to help him into his robe, he did not allow him to accompany him when he left his apartment, nor did he allow the sentries who stood guard outside his door to escort him.

The journey to Anne's apartment was a short one but it was one that he wanted to make alone.

Anne was sleeping but Madge Shelton was awake and, when she saw him, she hastened in to wake Anne before he could stop her. "Madam, the King is here!"

If Henry had ever been in doubt of how much his wife had hoped and prayed that he would begin to visit her bedchamber again, Anne's reaction to this news told him all he needed to know. She was awake and alert as soon as Madge spoke to her, sitting up in bed with a smile of welcome and joy on her face, her blue eyes full of hope.

"Your Majesty." She greeted him warmly, hesitating briefly as she tried to decide if she should get up and ask Madge to bring her her robe so that they could sit and talk or if she should stay in bed and wait for him to join her there. She was hoping for the latter but did not dare to ask.

How could he disappoint her?

"My lady." He said, shaking his head slightly to indicate that she should stay where she was. He sat down on the bed next to her, the silk coverlets crumpling under the weight of his body, and he reached out to stroke her hair and then to gently run a finger down her cheek. "Sweetheart." He was pleasantly surprised to find that the endearment came more easily than he would have thought and that, far from feeling forced, it felt natural for him to reach out to touch Anne, natural to want to be near her, natural to kiss her and to lie down next to her.

His arms encircled her and her body shifted into his embrace as though she belonged there.

He could wait until morning before they spoke again. For now, he wanted to hold her.

As he drifted off to sleep, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, as though somebody was watching him, even though he knew that Madge left Anne's apartment as soon as she knew that he would be spending the night with her mistress. He wondered if it was the Executioner watching and, for a moment, he thought that he could see him watching, a glowing white shadow by his side, before the image melted away from his sight.

If the Executioner was there, he hoped that he was pleased with what he saw.

* * *

_"You were right." The voice of the archangel was melodious yet still betrayed surprise._

_"I told you." The guise of the Executioner melted away, the form becoming shorter and slimmer, the muscles of the arms and legs softening while the large, calloused hands shifted into a woman's slender, tapered fingers, white and soft from lack of labour. "He loved her, even if he forgot it. All he needed was the chance to save her, he wouldn't refuse it, even if he thought he wanted to."_

_"I did not doubt his love, only his willingness to make the necessary sacrifice. What you asked of us was no easy thing. The price was a high one and he could not be forced to pay it."_

_"But he did pay it." The woman countered, a smile gracing her lips as she watched the sleeping couple lying on the bed before her. She leaned forward, reaching out to caress Anne's cheek, her touch so gentle that it was almost imperceptible to the living. Anne stirred slightly but did not wake, snuggling closer to Henry. "She's safe now, and so is George."_

_"Thanks to you." The archangel pointed out. "I don't know if anybody else could have persuaded him. Few have ever asked for such a thing, or **thought** to ask but you were so determined."_

_"Of course I was." She said matter-of-factly. "They don't stop being my children because I'm dead. I will always do everything I can to protect them."_

_"You've succeeded. It's up to them to decide what to do with their lives now."_

_"I know." She agreed. "But I will always be watching over them."_

_"I'd expect nothing less."_

THE END


End file.
